


Smoke Signal

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Bisexuality, Denial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Food mentions, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Matchmaking, Modern AU, Pining, Slow Build, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 66,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian will never admit he's stuck in a rut, but conveniently, summertime prevails with new beginnings, so he doesn't have to. He mistakenly agrees to take on the role of wingman for damnably handsome but hopelessly stubborn Cullen and finds himself with more work than he's cut out for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout out to arthulian over on tumblr! He just went through surgery and is now resting up, and we just wanted to dedicate the publishing of this chapter to you! In fact, I actually think that this was all spurred from a prompt you gave me ages ago, and I misread it. So, here's the fruit of our labors!

"I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a fire that solitude presses against my lips."

-Violette Leduc, _Mad in Pursuit_

* * *

 

Tuesdays are...unremarkable. They are as palatable as table wine; nothing special, nothing too unpleasant. The week has begun already, and the worst of it is over. His workweek starts on a Tuesday and ends on a Saturday. In like a lamb, out like a lion. But he likes Tuesdays. They let him return to work gently, like dipping his toe into the bath. It’s a little slow, tipping is less than stellar, but it gives him a chance to build momentum. As for the rest of the week: Thursdays are his favorite. They build into a profitable Friday. But the weekend? The weekend is right out. This is because Saturdays are, quite literally, the end of the world. Every. Single. Service.

Everyone else in the world is off duty, paycheck in hand, ready to demand service. They sell alcohol by the boatload and the kitchen staff live in the weeds like they’re giving out free handjobs.

On the outset, Haven is a quaint little bistro tucked neatly on the corner of a row of old buildings like the endcap to books on a shelf. With its attractive brick exterior, ivy crawling up the facade, and a dog-friendly policy, it garners a strong following of dedicated customers both old and young. There’s a pleasant outdoor seating area dotted with wrought-iron tables and chairs. Umbrellas provide shade from the summer heat, looking like they’ve been freshly plucked from a cocktail glass. Large windows let in natural light on a clean and sleek interior of gray and green, inspired by the latest in Orlesian trends, and the menu follows suit with fresh and modern small plate offerings. In the evenings, they open the windows to let in the cool breeze and hanging lanterns give the place a magical sort of whimsy.

From Friday at approximately four pm til after brunch on Sunday, Haven is a warzone. Customers have no idea, of course, because the waitstaff are like ducks on water, almost undetectable in how they scramble to keep everything running smoothly. And they are paid well for that talent, too. The highest performers are always, always scheduled to work weekends.

And Dorian Pavus is one of them.

He enjoys his job. There is no doubt about his commitment or his abilities, and he takes home a handsome sum in tips—where else could someone with a desiccating unfinished thesis on the impact of cultural invasion in the ancient Imperium make two hundred dollars in two hours?—but he’s running low on fuel, now. It’s late, and they’re less than an hour from closing, and he’s faced with an upturned plate of spaghetti and an extremely cranky, crying child at his last four-top, and it’s seriously testing his limits. The whole evening has been a bit of a wash, if he’s honest. College brats make for lousy gratuity, and there were lots of them in his section tonight, hardly leaving enough for him to tip out his bartender, and he’d almost been late to clock in, before that. Chef Ranier has been training up a new sous chef and his attention to detail is wonderful, really, but it’s taken forever to get his orders out. Which does not help with satisfied customers, and is nothing that he can readily control.

He’s three years into what he’d once grievously called a “summer gig” and it’s only on nights like these that he thinks about hopping the first flight out to Minrathous in the morning. He keeps just enough money around for that, but never quite gets the nerve.

At table twelve, he reaches over to wipe up a spill, and over the sound of their toddler screaming he assures the parents that it’s all right. At the last moment he notices the child squirming in its booster seat. It squeals and slams a fat little fist into mommy’s wine glass, rocketing merlot right down the front of Dorian’s shirt. Oh, but he bites his lip and pretends it’s not important, and says as much to the mortified couple, who must certainly know better. At least now he’s sure to get a good tip out of them. If he doesn’t… He can’t bear to think of it. He does what he can to clean up and wears a smile throughout the entire ordeal. In back of house, he grabs a wet floor sign and hands it to Lavellan.

“Table twelve,” he says, heading for his locker. And in passing, “I’ll split the tip with you,” when she begins to scoff.

There are stain removing wipes in the back of his locker for just this occasion. He ducks into the men’s room and she’s already on her way to do damage control. Make that tip even bigger, if she can. Handy with kids, that one. The stalls are all blessedly empty and he gets to work in front of the mirror. A lot of dabbing and water and paper towels later, most of the stain is out, reduced to a ghost of pale pink. Dawdling any longer will draw attention to his absence, and so with a resigned sigh, he puts his game face back on. From what he can see, the situation at table twelve has been remedied. Lavellan has a precious face much more suited to the handling of children. The parents are smiling and the wet floor sign is standing up by their table, the wine and the spaghetti and everything else as good as forgotten. The tot has his face embedded in a small bowl of frozen yogurt. Comp, of course.

He can’t wait to go home. Eat a makeshift dinner of leftover steamed veggies and buttered rice and all the white wine he wants, because tomorrow he can sleep in. It’ll be his day off. He’ll owe nothing to anyone. If he recalls correctly, there are back to back reruns of trashy 80s flicks slated to play all weekend. It's the simple pleasures in life that keep him going. He closes out two other checks for the last few diners in his section and stands idly at the POS for a moment, taking it all in, mentally preparing himself for closing.

“On your left.” He hears Sera snapping at him before he sees her, busily swerving around him with a full tray of dirty dishes. “Oi, quit gawking and get your section clear before Big Boss Lady sees,” she says, throwing him a dirty look.

“Speaking of redheaded terrors, where is she?”

The blonde shrugs and makes an “I don’t know, I don’t care” sound. She throws her head toward the small tables near the bar. “Givin’ some bloke a hard time for holding up a table. Date stood ‘im up, yeah? Must feel like a right loser.”

She careens through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Dorian raises a brow and looks over. Highlighted by the glow of lanterns sits a man who does indeed look a bit worse for wear. He’s wearing a decent looking sport coat but it’s not fitted well, too tight in the shoulders, and a nice shirt underneath. His hands are folded on the table in front of him, and his face is scrunched up in an expression that looks like Leliana might have asked him a confusing question about calculus. He looks more than a little embarrassed.

Considering the fact that he’s at least six feet tall and handsome and built like an athlete from between the pages of a skin mag Dorian had stashed under his bed as a teenager, he finds it all far too amusing. And a bit sad. He watches as Leliana politely nods and says a few more words. Of course, “politely” for Leliana often still has an undercurrent of something that edges on terrifying just beneath a polished surface. Dorian almost feels bad for the stood-up man. Almost. A little bit. Depending on how long he’s been there, she’s probably come around quite a few times to try and goad him into moving to the bar or ordering something other than a water.

Leliana seems to tighten her resolve, shaking her head when he responds back with some unknown entreaty. She’s a phenomenally good manager, good with delegation and does not bother overmuch with micromanaging her staff, but she’s cold. She’s got terrible tableside service. That’s what she hires people like him for, after all. It’s a touch of pride that suggests he go over there and show her how it’s done, what a stellar employee he is. Something to keep in the back of her mind when it comes time for merit increases or end of year bonuses.

Dorian returns to his last tables with their debit cards and bids them all a wonderful evening. It’s no accident that he heads in the direction of the bar afterwards, weaves through a big group putting on their coats to leave. A quick hand through his hair and a tug at the cuffs of his shirt, and he enters shark-infested waters.

Her Orlesian accent is pleasant but she stresses her words so that he will not mistake her good manners for empathy. “Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t like to order something?”

“I- I’m sorry, I’m sure they’ll be here soon, if I can just wait a few more minutes,” the man says, a hand tugging at his collar as he impressively manages to stare Leliana down.

His optimism is actually more cutting than bald-faced honesty. No one is buying it. He’s been cut loose. She’s irritated, and reasonably so, because he’s taken up a valuable two-top where an actual couple could have been sitting; real, paying customers. That’s money she’ll never be able to recoup, and it’s enough to make her return to this poor man’s table and needle him. He hasn’t given up, though, and stands his ground despite the obvious puppydog look on his face and the way his hands are white-knuckled and fidgety around the glass of water he’s no doubt been nursing for far too long.

“Leliana?” Dorian quietly sidles up to her, ignoring the exasperated, pleading look he gets from the man. He leans in and whispers behind his hand, “I’ll take care of this.”

She takes a steely breath and whispers back to him, “What are you doing?”

The man makes a big show of shifting around in his seat, looking over his shoulder at the entryway, as if his date is just on the other side. He looks at the man and hopes he’s half as malleable as he is pretty. While he’s occupied, they take a few steps aside and speak in hushed tones between one another.

“Just give me a few minutes with him.”

She gives him a tight smile. “If this is some kind of stunt, Dorian…”

“I assure you it’s not. If I can’t get him to order a drink, I’ll get him to the door. How’s that sound?”

Leliana clears her throat in that way she always does when she’s disapproving, but she leaves him to it. He sits down across from the man, who has an immediate flash of confusion in his eyes.

“Listen.” Dorian extends his arms out on the table and clasps his hands together. “For one reason or another, you’ve been stood up. It’s quite normal, I’ve seen it a thousand times. Fret not.”

“E-excuse me?”

“You have two options,” says Dorian, and he uses his fingers to gesture the number. “One, you can take your dignity and leave, which would be a pity. Two, you can get hammered and have a great time without her. I recommend the manhattan, it’s so full of booze you’d do well to stay away from open flame with it.”

He sees a flash of immediate remorse in the other man’s eyes. Leliana is behind the bar now, arms crossed, silently observing them.

“Now, why don’t you go have a seat at the bar? I’ll make sure they take good care of you.”

And, if the world is kind, he’ll stick around to closing and Dorian will get off the clock and they can go down the street to the bar and see what happens next. He smiles and reaches to rest his hand on the man’s forearm, near the wrist. He waits to see how he reacts to the touch, lets his hand linger, lets his gaze linger, but the handsome blond can’t meet his eyes, almost twitches away. He pulls back, interprets that as a sign he’s dealing with a solid heterosexual. Best behave himself then. Or at least pretend to.

“I just…” He sighs, shakes his head.

“It's her loss.”

And his.

“I should go.” He blurts it out and stands suddenly, erratically almost. Dorian desperately wonders if he’d said the last part out loud. “I’m sorry for the trouble.” He fishes out his wallet for good measure and drops a ten on the table.

Dorian looks at Leliana, and her brow is raised in question at the gesture. The abandoned man leaves without another word. Dorian sniffs and Leliana appears nearby to help bus the table.

“Well, that was painfully awkward.”

It stings a little to think that the man had been so put off by his gregariousness. Haven was settled right next door to the queerest neighborhood in town, but out of towners sometimes didn’t know, didn’t understand, were still living in a false yesteryear where homosexuals kept their proclivities better hidden. He shakes it off. No matter.

“You felt sorry for him.”

Dorian laughs. “Who wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t.”

“Hm. You know I was thinking of pretending to deliver a message that his date had called and expressed her deepest apologies for having to reschedule.”

“Why didn’t you?”

They stop at the hostess station to inform the girls that there’s an open table to assign. Dorian thinks on his answer.

“Too cruel. I was hoping he’d rather take me in exchange,” he says, and leans against the partition, crosses his ankles and smiles sweetly off into the distance.

“You don’t seem his type, I’m afraid.”

Dorian purses his lips into an extravagantly rehearsed pout. “Well, I could have been.”

She gives him a sidelong glance but, bless her, lets him off the hook.

The rest of his shift dwindles to a standstill. Servers jostle to be redeployed in order to squeeze out a few more tickets from what remains of the customers before they close up for the night. Dorian opts to go home early, and the unanimous decision is in his favor. Once he does a quick spot check of his section, he’s home free. He retreats to the back room to put away his apron and wash his hands one last time before heading out into the night. Double checking for his keys and wallet and slinging his jacket over his shoulder, he sends Lavellan a final wave.

He’s nearly three steps out the back door before he’s bombarded with an “excuse me” that spins his head to the side, making him jump. It’s the man from before, still loitering around.

“Sweet Maker, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Dorian exclaims, clenching his chest with one hand. “Didn’t you ever learn to not startle unsuspecting people in darkened parking lots? That’s the type of foul play that gets you on the news.”

“I just wanted to apologize for what happened inside. I only realized afterwards what you were trying to do—which, thank you for that—and…” He deflates. “It’s been a long night.” He finishes his harried ramble, running out of steam, looking even more hopelessly lost than when he began.

“Things come up.” He shrugs. “If it’s not resolved with some worthy excuse in the next few days, just remember that anybody worth your time wouldn’t dare do such a thing. There are plenty of other opportunities out there.”

Dorian really has no idea what he’s saying. Typically his brand of relationship advice draws on his experience with reading smutty literature and watching rom-coms rather than real life. His own love life is at worst equally dismal, comprised mostly of ill-advised decisions that saw him ending up in seedy dive bar restrooms or groping around in the back seat with people he barely knew. His ratio of satisfying dates that ended with a good night kiss to ending up face-first in a potted plant were...well, they were weighing more in the favor of puking in a ficus. He’s hardly one to give advice to this poor soul.

“Well. Goodnight, then.”

“Wait,” the man says, snapping out of whatever reverie he might have drifted into. “I, uh—I bought tickets for this weekend,” he starts, reaching into his breast pocket. “For an art exhibition. I thought—well, I thought if things had gone well tonight, then maybe she’d have liked to go, so I rather foolishly bought them ahead, before they sold out.” He wags the tickets at Dorian. “Perhaps you’d get more use out of them than me.” He offers a sheepish smile.

Dorian runs through a list of all his acquaintances, any who might enjoy this even a little. Sera and Bull are certainly out of the picture, and he knows Lavellan is busy working. Vivienne would’ve been a possibility if she hadn’t been out of town for a conference. Felix is back in Tevinter. He considers Solas briefly, one of his original cohort in university and sometimes patron of Haven, as his offices are nearby. They’ve only actually talked a handful of times. He’s also seen him at the coffee shop they both enjoy frequenting, but he’s not sure either of them could manage a peaceful evening in sustained contact with one another. The topic of university is still a little too raw. Solas has a doctorate now, and Dorian...is in food service.

He blinks back into the moment and looks at the man, an idea forming.

“I’m afraid none of my available friends have the taste required for an art exhibition, so I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Unless,” he feigns a moment of thought, if only for dramatic effect, “you’d like to go together?”

This second exploratory attempt goes a little smoother than the first. Dorian revels in watching the man’s expression transform before him. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles and Dorian notices a fetching scar tugging gently at his upper lip, pale enough to easily overlook. Down boy, Dorian thinks to himself.

“I’m no expert on art, but it did look interesting.”

“Excellent, I’ll meet you there. Short notice, but...” He never finishes the thought. His only actual plans had been to sit around in his socked feet and boxers and listen to music, do some chores, ignore the rest of the world. This way, he gets to be worldly instead, and spend an evening out with this stunning specimen. He’d worked with less before. Dorian beseeches the Maker to tarry in the favor of heteroflexibility and takes out his phone to ready a new contact. “Name?”

“Oh, I’m Cullen! Rutherford.” He spells it, as if Dorian can’t manage it on his own.

“Dorian Pavus, pleasure to meet you,” he says, the words rolling off his tongue automatically as he extends his free hand and keys in Cullen’s name with the other. Cullen pulls his hand out of his pocket quickly to shake it. He looks down at the ticket Dorian handed back to him. “Number?” Cullen rattles off his number and Dorian saves it, pockets his phone. “See you at seven, then? Anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

“You’re certain?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m not sure how to thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dorian says. “We’ve all been on the shitty end of a date gone awry. I should be thanking you for the free ticket.”

Cullen chuckles softly, shoving his hands back into his pockets, and with that, he’s gone into the night, leaving Dorian admittedly a little perplexed at what had just transpired, standing under a cone of fluorescent light from a streetlamp.

“Maker, what have I gotten myself into?” he mutters aloud. The moment really would’ve felt like something special...if he hadn’t just swatted a moth out of the air to accidentally crush it in his hand.

He scowls at the gooey mess it leaves behind before trudging to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> symmetry, here: This started out as the work of [cloveoil](http://www.cloveoil.tumblr.com), who graciously let me get involved in the project. We actually started this several months ago, but after letting it sit for a while, we're happy to finally begin sharing it with the world. It's our first collaboration and I hope you guys like it! Please comment and let us know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

He sleeps in, watches a few hours of garbage on tv, as he’d promised himself, and delegates the afternoon to cleaning up. Two hours before they’re scheduled to meet at the gallery, he texts a final confirmation while drawing a bath in a spotlessly clean bathroom.

_Still on for seven?_

He sets his phone aside and forgets about it while he adds a dash of softening bubble bath to the tub as it fills. After he’s washed up he reclines for a while, steeping in orange blossom and neroli oil scented bubbles til the water goes lukewarm. He towels off, moisturizes, shaves, styles his hair and mustache, and in his low rise briefs and socked feet he contemplates his wardrobe. He lands on a soft, high-collared dark grey sweater and skinny black trousers. It feels a bit morbid, but fitting for the somber mood of a sold-out avant garde exhibit. He sizes himself up in the mirror and peevishly adjusts the break of his cuffs, folds them so there’s just a peek of his stylish socks showing. He tousles and then re-tousles his hair.

This ritual grooming is par for the course, regardless of where he’s going or with whom. (Except perhaps for those sad trips to the 24-hour grocery store at 3 am, but that’s a different story and a different plane of existence.) But throughout the motions there is a thread, a nagging thought. A cloying worry that gently, only gently, tugs at the strings of his conscience.

Is he going out of his way for this fellow out of pity? Or because he wants to seduce him, which is all the more likely, and all the more damning. He hates the nagging undercurrent in his actions that suggests he’s putting himself in the line of fire for yet another hopeless case. Making a fool of himself in front of Leliana and then agreeing to see an art exhibition with some sad sack he hardly knew? Was he that desperate? Or was he being charitable? The chap could obviously use a friend.

He tries not to submit to the suggestion that he might be acting to please someone else, to appease to this Cullen Rutherford, utter train wreck, who had been about to have a minor breakdown in public over a bad date.

It rankles him to realize that he still has remnants of the person his father, his family, his bloodline, had tried to mold him into. The Dorian his father wants him to be is subservient, self-sacrificing, and never subverts the status quo.

He adds a final touch to his outfit with a thin silk scarf in a geometric pattern of olive green and sets out for the door. In the hall, he checks his phone. No reply. He walks down to the curb feeling the slightest bit jilted. Maker knows he’d probably deserve it if Cullen were the one to back out at the last minute, though he couldn’t quite say why. He’s the one bending over backward for the man, not the other way around.

Once he’s outside, the sky looks ominous, like it might crack open at any moment, clouds moving swiftly overhead. From his phone, he checks the weather forecast. Eighty percent chance of scattered showers. As he’s about to lock the screen, he gets an affirmative from Cullen and it startles him.

_Running a bit late. Be there shortly._

A minor relief, there, but he’s still uneasy. It’s hard to let go of his concerns once they’ve set down roots. He’s more nervous about this silly get together than he’s ever been for a real date, but it feels like half a century since he’s had one. Hookups never bothered him in the slightest. He drops down into the driver’s seat of his car as the beginnings of droplets start to patter down onto the windshield. He traces the path of a particularly eager droplet with his eyes, racing to get to the bottom as it swallows up others along the way. It never stops, never slows, never has the chance to look back. It only moves forward, pushed ahead by something it, and Dorian himself, can’t control. There is gravity in all things, an irresistible urge to move closer, to be swallowed up.

He turns the engine and listens to deafening music on the ride downtown.

Parking is cheap but it still aggravates him, waiting behind a woman who cannot fathom the intricacies of the card reader at the kiosk without his help. It’s a habit that comes from life as a server that makes him blithely act as though it's no trouble when she thanks him. (It isn't, for someone nicer than he is.) He pays three dollars for parking, which is a steal in this part of the city, and dashes out from the parking structure, trying not to get soaked in the meantime.  

Now he's running late. He hurries up to the door and takes a second to brush the rain off his sweater before it soaks in.

“Dorian?”

He swings his head around before the rest of his body.

“Hey.” It’s Cullen. Sneaking up on him again. “I was able to make up time on the bridge.”

He thinks he might have also said “it’s good to see you,” but he’s a bit distracted by the internal conflict rising like a helium-filled balloon inside him. They look like a picture book illustration: city mouse and country mouse. Dorian’s sleek, modern outfit is countered by Cullen’s plaid button-down and broken-in blue jeans, but, Maker help them all, it's actually quite sexy. What's worse is that he probably has no clue. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows; it's less fashion than it is utility, but it works for Dorian just the same. The white undershirt is snug and thin, giving an unintentional tease of what lie underneath. His jeans are fitted firmly around those suggestively muscled thighs of his, no doubt wrapping his ass like a present. Dorian will wait for the right opportunity to check on that.

Within seconds he comes up with the notion of Cullen as some sort of “boy next door” who drives a pickup and plays guitar, a gentle soul with a tortured past who just needs a little TLC. He’s rough and tumble and masculine and pulls it off so effortlessly one might just fall into those brown puppydog eyes forever and never regret a thing. How he’s still single is a question for the ages. But Dorian already knows there’s a simple answer behind it. Cullen is awkward as he day is long. A late bloomer, in all likelihood.

He’s practically the embodiment of a love interest in a trashy novel written for a suppressed, wine-guzzling housewife. Cheesy. Definitely not Dorian’s type, though he can objectively admire Cullen’s rugged good looks from afar.

And then Cullen rakes his hand through his wavy blond hair, dampened by the rain, and smooths it down the back of his neck. He presses his lips together and when he’s done, they part slightly, just enough for Dorian to see his teeth.

Now, if he had his druthers, he could do with his life being a bit more trashy, leaning more towards something of a nearing-middle-age, wine-guzzling family-outcast homosexual nature. At least then the plot will be predictable by his standards and he doesn’t have to worry about an unhappy ending. Here, though, stuck in reality, he’s left to the wolves of fate where things will most assuredly end in bitter disappointment.

Dorian blinks and digs himself out of his reverie. “The bridge? You live on the eastside?”

“I do, yes. I like the city, but I’ll gladly commute for the chance to have some peace and quiet.”

It’s true. Dorian lives in a decent residential neighborhood just far enough from the heart of the city to avoid much of the chaos, but even still, ambulances and police sirens are a part of the local wildlife.

As nice as it is to stand out in the cold and wind and rain, he thumbs for the doors. “Shall we?”

“Right.”

The attendant scans their tickets. Dorian looks around the place and surveys the rather esoteric art hung upon the white walls. There are splashes of paint and color on the first canvases they come across, mixed with collage elements, resulting in a fascinatingly distorted sort of landscape in each piece, centering around a single figure representing a person from the looks of the silhouette. He doesn’t understand it but he can appreciate it all the same. It feels like a recurring theme these last two days. There’s a cash bar off to the side with an apathetic looking bartender behind it and a line of customers waiting for expensive drinks.

They idle at a large black and white rendition of a nude woman in the style of cubism, or so Dorian thinks. He squints and turns his head, crosses his arms.

“I’m glad you could make it.”

Dorian smirks but doesn’t look away from the form on the canvas. “I’d never stand you up, Cullen.”

Cullen makes a noise of befuddlement and Dorian does steal a glance then. He sees a blush, he’s sure of it. “I was a mess yesterday. I hope I can make a better impression today.”

They look at the large, sweeping curves that comprise the composition. She’s bent at an unnatural angle, her head at a right angle to the rest of her body, hair forming a dark backdrop for intensely white lines that form her hips, the outline of a breast. Dorian peers at the faceplate next to it, apparently a self portrait. He turns on his heel and they move on to the next piece, a statue on a pedestal, and then on to the next.

“I’m not going to lie, I don’t understand very much of this.”

The next installation is an oil painting. It’s desaturated entirely and features a half-painted bathtub with a partially painted woman inside. The rest of the painting is smeared with varying shades of neutrals as if the artist had gotten frustrated and didn’t want to finish what they’d started.

Dorian can relate.

“No? You can’t see what this piece is trying to convey?”

Cullen gives him a worried look, one dark eyebrow raised. “Not really. Can you?”

He can bullshit, if need be. Dorian lets him squirm in a wake of silence for a few long seconds before regarding him and declaring, “Not one blighted bit.”

Cullen’s face lights up and he lets out a laugh, releasing his stress. There are hints of lines on his face that do little to betray his handsomeness, creases between the eyes where he’s held worry, grief, consternation.

“You thought it a good idea to bring a lady to this sort of thing?” That is, something completely out of his depth.

They amble on.

There’s a good turnout of people there and luckily for Cullen he isn’t the only one sporting a casual look, though theirs is artful and his is merely comfort.

“I don’t know, women like art, don’t they?” He sighs. “It seemed like a good idea. She ordered a cake from Josie, something for a design firm. They...won an award or something.”

When they reach a rather more crowded area of the exhibit, Cullen urges them to move past it onto the next. Art enthusiasts murmur and contemplate the deeper, hidden meanings of hyper-realistic statues of disembodied limbs and faces. Not a bad idea to bring a posh designer to something like this, but she’d either find his cluelessness adorable or revolting, and Dorian couldn't be sure which. In his case? The jury’s still out. He steals a look at Cullen’s arse while he walks in front of him. That, on the other hand...well, whoever this woman is, she’s foolish.

“This is going to sound rude, but I’m asking anyway. Have you ever had a girlfriend before?”

It takes Cullen a moment to muddle through his reply, “I’ve been on dates, yes, but, dating? As in an ongoing thing? Not as such.”

Dorian taps his chin. “Just so. What you need, my good friend, is a wingman.”

“A wingman.”

“Yes. Don’t make me repeat myself,” Dorian says as they continue walking, slowly, but more or less ignoring the art entirely now. “Get you out there, meeting people, talk up the ladies. You know. That sort of thing. What time is it?”

He could check his watch or his phone, but makes Cullen do it for him. “About a quarter til eight.”

“Let’s get out of here. The night is young.”

“But we just got here.”

Dorian gesticulates around them with a look as though he’s smelled sour milk. “Is there anything here you really want to see? If you want to stare at obscure references to puberty and sexual awakening and nod your head like you understand the meaning of life and art and death, you can stay and talk to those people over there.”

There’s a group of extremely wealthy looking older men and women, dressed lavishly and obviously on the prowl to show everyone how extraordinarily rich and shitty they are. It’s the set his parents belong to. It’s revolting. The venue, the pretentious art, all the upper middle class yuppies snorting and making withering comments to one another behind their hands, jostling to try and climb the social ladder into the upper echelon that will never truly let them in, it’s making his stomach hurt. He can appreciate art on his own terms. This is reminding him too much of Tevinter. That way is the direction of a long road of memories he’d prefer to leave in the past.

“I’d...rather not.”

“Well, good. Come have a few drinks with me. I’ll have you going home with a phone number by the end of the night, I can promise you that.”

Cullen’s lips twist in thought. “Well, all right.”

“Splendid. I’m so glad,” says Dorian. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

They pause at the exit doors. It’s still raining, but it’s dwindled into an annoying mist rather than a relentless downpour. They agree to pop into the bar and grill in the lobby of a nice hotel by the convention center. It’s a few blocks away, but there are convenient overhangs that keep them dry most of the way. He asks Cullen what he likes in a woman, and his answers are disgustingly earnest, as if torn straight out of the pages of a teen dream magazine. Smart and Kind and Honest and Interesting and Dorian wants to almost vomit, but he’s not so cruel as to squash the man’s hopes just yet. He takes it all in with hums and nods of acknowledgement and strokes his chin in mock contemplation.

For all he knows, there may very well be someone out there just like that.

The Crown and Lion is a cozy spot with live music and a relaxed atmosphere. There’s a rocky start because of Cullen’s hesitance, but Dorian gets the conversation going with some ladies having a night on the town. And as it turns out, there are people out there just like he’d described. They’re gorgeous and between the four of them there’s a good selection. There’s Smart, she’s a dirty blonde with a side-pony, and Kind, who’s a brunette in pinned-up braids, and Honest, she’s auburn in a bun, and Interesting, with dark hair dyed a rebellious shade of purple. There are no tables left and after Dorian makes them laugh uproariously while ordering drinks, they invite the boys to join them at their hightop.

They giggle over appetizers at his stories and soon enough they loosen up enough to tell their own. Each of them explains her occupation, and as the drinks keep coming, they get more and more vivacious. One of them takes a shine to Cullen, who’s been quiet so far, and right on time, he gets overheated and slips off his red flannel. He sits in his white t-shirt, leaning forward on his defined forearms with a dopey look on his face. He looks...safe. Dorian doesn’t blame them for gobbling him up. He takes a long swill of his cold beer before jumping back into his endeavor of subliminally working the table in Cullen’s favor. The man doesn’t even know how much he owes him, and on that thought, Dorian doesn’t know why he’s doing it at all. What can Cullen possibly give him in return?

As the night goes on, the conversation dwindles down. The girls sober up and begin to reach for their purses. One of them (Kind, he thinks) has asked to keep in touch on social media. She’s dressed in a pretty gold dress accented with a black belt, complimenting her dark hair. She’s a very lovely sight with her sea green eyes, but she holds no charms for him. He gives her his username and hopes she doesn’t get too disappointed if nothing comes of it. They make a big show of saying their goodbyes, hugging and talking animatedly as they make plans to see each other again soon.

“I had a great time tonight,” says Honest, the redhead. She’s been making eyes at Cullen since he sat down. She’s fair in complexion and wears a vibrant red lipstick. She smiles up at him until he returns her gaze and, apparently feeling bold, she presses her lips against his in quick kiss that melts Cullen’s expression into something sweet and soft. “Call me?” Her lipstick leaves a smudge.

“I will,” Cullen says, smiling at her as she stands.

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear and the look she gives him is primal in its lustiness. Rutherford, on the other hand, looks positively smitten already and it’s a wonder that he doesn’t get up and follow her out like some lovestruck duckling. Thankfully he seems to have more sense than that, somehow, and lets her slip away. The girls depart after squaring up their bills. Cullen looks down at the napkin in his hand with her number and her name written on it. Her real name, hopefully, and a real number. She seemed genuine enough.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dorian asks slyly, sipping at the last of his drink and biting down on his jealousy, and then biting down on a pretzel.

“I think so,” Cullen says, looking smug of all things. He leans back in his seat across from Dorian and laces his hands together behind his head. “What a turnaround. You are good,” he chuckles. “You made good on your promise,” he says, clearing his throat. Some of his humility is thankfully returning. “

“Naturally.”

“What about you?”

This is the fun part for Dorian. Cullen’s either impossibly dense or he's trying to get a better read on him. He frankly finds both scenarios quite hilarious. He rarely passes for straight anymore—he doesn't need to—but gets pegged as a bisexual more and more. He finds it doesn't matter one whit, but doesn't want to lead Cullen to an incorrect conclusion.

“What was her name, the brunette...didn’t you exchange information?”

Dorian shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’m afraid I’ll be of no use to her,” he says, and he grins devilishly.

“You didn’t like her? She was cute.”

Indeed. But that’s beside the point. “Then she’s all yours, dear friend. If I do hear from her, I’ll point her in your direction.”

Cullen cocks his head and sits up, moving forward to hear Dorian better, as if he’d misheard. “I thought…”

“Let’s just say my predilections tend more towards the male persuasion and leave it at that.”

“Oh.”  Cullen closes his eyes in silent recognition. Quietly, “Of course.”

“That’s all right, isn’t it?”

A mortified look passes over Cullen’s face. “Yes! I mean, I’m fine with that.” It’s endearing that the man thinks it takes an awkward pause to offend him. He’s heard every reaction across the spectrum and this is by far the most sincere. “I was just confused, is all. You’re a very…flirtatious person, it seems.

“You thought I might swing both ways?” Cullen looks nervous. Dorian laughs softly to spare him further torment. “The girls in this town should be so lucky.”

The subject drops without further discomfort. 

But even so, Dorian is left feeling an indescribable sense of malaise. Instead of the satisfaction of a job well done, setting this hopeless man up on a potential date, there's a knot sitting strangely in his gut. His responsibility in the scenario is over. It should be relief he feels, not whatever this is. Disappointment, maybe.  It's been a decent evening, nothing special, sort of boring compared to what he's capable of getting up to, and perhaps that's it. He's not sure what's next. Were he younger, there'd be another bar, and another, and he'd be vivacious and comely, the center of attention. The itch to revert to old self destructive habits adds itself to his general discontent. He lets there be silence while he redirects his thoughts away from the past, away from being ill-at-ease, and back into the moment. He muses on the shitty music playing, listening in on snippets of conversations around them, and his eyes wander over the curious scar on Cullen's upper lip. He's looking away, making it easy for Dorian's side-eyed gaze to linger. The question of how it happened is perhaps too personal. Maker, but he's handsome.

Cullen blurts out a suggestion, “Are you still hungry? I know a place that’s open late.”

Dorian weighs his hunger. The girls had potato skins and stuffed mushrooms, of which they shared a few, but he hadn’t eaten a real meal since that morning. He’s been made malleable by alcohol, finds it hard to pass up more time socializing. The idea sounds like an adventure, well in line with the already absurd course he’s put himself upon.

“Lead the way.”

Cullen directs them to a diner and it turns out to be a helluva walk. He promises a few times that it’s only a block away, but it’s always just one more after that. It’s finally stopped raining and the streets are slick and shining. He’s glad for the warmth of his sweater, but Cullen walks with his shirt tossed over his shoulder, still looking like a page ripped out of a fashion spread for faux-rugged designer jeans. His hair is beyond control, an utter mess of loose curls.

Dorian is just tipsy enough not to mind the trek. The company is fine and it’s nice to stretch his legs. Once they get there, it’s past ten. He’s sure he’s passed this place before during his few years here and never once pegged it for a suitable place to eat. It’s...colorful. Or it was at one time, and it’s fallen into a bit of disrepair. It’s small and rectangular, ringed with neon, and it blinks with a faulty connection but Dorian can still make out the name: Vhenadahl Diner.

It’s a cozy little thing, crammed in a tiny lot between two bigger and nicer buildings and stands out from the surrounding metropolitan sprawl like a sore toe. But Cullen seems eager to share it with him and steers them to a tacky red booth off to the side looking out onto the street from a window that still drips with rain. There are a few other people there, but it’s quiet and homey even if the fluorescents are burning his eyes.

There’s a single waitress, Merrill, and she’s as cute and sweet as a kitten regardless of the late hour. The kitchen can be seen through a small expediting window behind the countertop, and Dorian can see a tall man with a stoic, almost angry expression who’s probably going to cook their order, watching Merrill flit about, juggling plates and receipts and drinks and happily humming all the same.

The surface of the table and the menus are a little sticky. Dorian must not look very convinced because Cullen shrugs and says “It’s eclectic” from behind his menu. “They serve just about everything under the sun, see for yourself.”

And so it is. Dorian reads over the menu: typical Rivaini faire, rustic Dalish classics, Kirkwallian junk food, and, yes, there’s just about everything here, isn’t there? How they manage it in such a small place is anyone’s guess. He wants something filling to sop up the booze in his belly and gets a medium-spicy order of Rivaini stir fry noodles. And for Cullen? Starkhaven shepherd’s pie and soda bread.

Turns out the food is exponentially better than Dorian had expected from the outside looks of the place. They chat throughout their meal, and it’s easy enough to sit back and listen after having to lead the conversation back at the bar. Here, Dorian finds that Cullen is more at ease. Without the captive female audience, he talks about his family and where he came from, but when it gets to his career, he grows noticeably reticent. He brings a hand up to his opposite shoulder and rubs it absentmindedly. The other hand fusses with his napkin on the table.

There’s traces here of that lonely, awkward man he met at Haven, but between the two of them, there’s been almost no lapse in conversation save for when it felt natural to be still, to let forks scraping their plates be the only sound. Dorian can deal with awkward. He can be brilliant enough for the two of them.

“I used to be on the police force, but, uh, I got injured on the job. Now I’m working for a friend. She’s just started a small business.”

“That’s lovely. What sort?”

“A...bakery.”

There’s a surprise. Dorian’s eyebrows lift in curiosity. “You bake?”

Cullen laughs sharply, suddenly, whatever dark cloud that had been forming clearing immediately from his face. “Maker no, I’ve too much respect for the science that goes into it. I make myself available to do the heavy lifting and run deliveries. It’s not much, but it’s a good cause,” he shrugs at the platitude. “She’s very talented and a good person. She deserves to be successful.”

“What’s the place called?”

“Antivan Sweets. It’s not far from Haven, actually. Just a few blocks.”

Dorian smiles at that. “Is that so,” he says, remembering how many “few blocks” it had been to get here to Vhenadahl. He folds his hands over his very full and very content stomach. “I’ll have to check it out some time then won’t I?”

Cullen brightens. “Yes! You should definitely stop by, I’m sure you and Josephine will get along very well. She’s well-traveled. Smart.”

It’s a wonder they’re not an item, with the way Cullen talks about her, but Dorian knows things between friends don’t always work out in such a way. Best to stay friends, never let feelings muddy the water. He just nods, affirming his interest, and the conversation wanders into other topics.

When they get ready to pay, Dorian asks for a box because he’s too stuffed to finish his plate but doesn’t want to waste it. Merrill has been a fastidious, if a bit loopy waitress, and obviously takes great care in what she does. He profusely thanks her for all her hard work and lets her know he’ll tell his colleagues to head this way the next time they close together. She brings them both small slices of apple pie in little styrofoam cups with lids, no charge. They’ll expire by the morning, so it’s no trouble, she says. She leaves their receipt and hurries through a set of swinging double doors into the kitchen where Dorian spies her leaning up on tiptoe to kiss the cook. Scandalous!

Then he catches Cullen reaching for their ticket, saying, “I’ll get this.”

He has to take a moment internally to process the man’s words, entirely impressed with his generosity. They’d split the tab and paid for their own drinks at The Crown and Lion and it hadn’t exactly been cheap but Cullen still wants to pay, and that’s...an uncommon thing, these days. It’s a foreign feeling, letting someone else offer up money or time or anything, really, without expecting anything in return. He realizes the sharp hypocrisy there, but when he does it, it’s from a position of his own agency. In Tevinter this would be considered a sort of political machination. For Cullen, it’s just doing the right thing, probably.

And they say chivalry is dead, don’t they? Well, it’s crawling out of the grave now!

But Dorian cannot help himself. He cannot.

“Nonsense.” He swipes the paper away and adjusts his seat to dig his wallet out of his back pocket. He can pay in cash with tonight’s tips. “You paid for those tickets and we hardly stayed long enough to get your money’s worth. I should pay for dinner.”

“You’ve helped me out enough, the least I can do—”

He likes to feel like people owe him, so that he can grandly wave it off. Selfless Dorian. Worthy Dorian. “You can cover it next time.”

Normally this would be a platitude. Next time. But this time it’s less disingenuous. He’d like to do this again. The offer washes over Cullen and blunts his stubbornness. He sits beneath the fluorescents of this otherwise empty diner, his hair a certified mess of frizz and curls from the rain, and though he sighs, there’s a ghost of a smile behind it. Dorian pushes the receipt and thin stack of small bills to the side.

“Next time,” he says, as if he’s just lost a game of chess, backing down with humility, but with a firm promise of retribution.

Dorian knows he’s won, but has the strangest sensation he’s also just made the game far more complicated than it needs to be. They share the same downhill route back to the art gallery where they parked, and it gives them both plenty of time to dry out, metaphorically speaking. They say their farewells and go their separate ways. Dorian sets his leftovers on the passenger seat back at his car and realizes that, had this been a year or two ago, the night would have gone very differently. He ruefully remembers all the times he’s gotten into the pants of men who’d never date him in daylight but would let him suck them off for fun at night, when their girlfriends were studying or out of town. It’s not a proud feeling.

Cullen doesn’t seem the type, anyway.

When he’s finally home, he elbows open the door, puts away his food, and strips all the way to the bedroom, leaving articles on the floor behind him as he goes. He knows he should review the events of today in his head, sort them into neat little boxes of what should and shouldn’t be processed, deeply question his motives and their consequences, but instead he drops into bed, curls up and worms his hand under the pillows, and falls asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> symmetry here: thank you all so much for your sweet comments and kudos! we'll try to keep the updates coming pretty steadily over the next several weeks (while i play fallout 4). it's sooooo nice to finally share this story with the fandom and i really hope you guys enjoy it.


	3. Chapter 3

Monday he plans to get in a bit of yoga, make a quick stop by the grocery, and complete a few other overdue chores. What actually happens is that he goes back to work.

He picks up Lavellan’s late morning princess shift in repayment for her help on Saturday. It’s four hours of business types having work lunches on the company tab plus a few couples, one lovestruck pair playing footsie underneath the table over mimosas and crepes. Droll. Once it’s done, he retrieves his things from the back room. As he’s jamming his personal effects from his locker into his pockets, he notices a text notification from Cullen.

They haven’t been in contact since the other day. He’s surprised and curious to see Cullen is the first to initiate.

_Need to follow up on paying you back soon._

It leaves room for making that frivolous mention of “Next Time” a reality.

Dorian takes a moment to savor his amusement.

It’s rare you find someone adhere so straightforwardly to an offhand comment made out of politeness and only a hint of honesty, but it seems Cullen is one of them. It’s touching. He takes people at their word, and from the looks of it, when he makes a commitment, he honors it judiciously. Dorian is not always so honorable.

But so _soon_ ** _._** He just might think he’s being solicited, if he didn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cullen isn’t capable. Not on purpose, anyway.

A normal person would put some distance here, give it a week.

He’s got the rest of the day to indulge in, and it’s meet with Cullen again or follow through with his original plans. He’s got to get around to sorting out his personal library and deciding which books to sell in order to make room for the new ones he’s bought. As much fun as it is to get lost in a book he’d long since forgotten he owned, he likes the sound of a free meal even better. The chores can wait. It can all wait.

He taps out a quick message in reply and feels his phone buzz minutes later as he’s in the driver’s seat of his car, keys only just stuck into the ignition. His hand is reaching for his phone before he can think about it, unlocking it and reading over Cullen’s response. He is apparently still at work (texting on the job, tsk tsk) and says he’ll be done in about twenty minutes, that they can meet at Haven if he doesn’t mind waiting. Dorian sees the logic in his idea, but he has a far better one. He brings up the map in his phone and starts the turn-by-turn navigation to Antivan Sweets.

The shop is entirely what he expected and yet nothing like it at all. It somehow holds a cute, artesian feel but not in the sickeningly twee way most bakeries or candy shops do. It’s precise, crisp, every decoration intentionally placed, and the little stacks of bagged candies around the store add a nostalgic but world-traveled charm that could ensnare even the most diet-conscious adult. And that isn’t even factoring in the glass cases full of delectable chocolates, cakes, and pastries.

As Dorian enters, a small bell chimes above him and very sweet-faced young woman with a dark complexion appears from behind a curtain. Her dark hair is tucked into a purposefully messy bun. She wears a sheer navy blue blouse, but it’s the shiny bits of embellishment that catch Dorian’s interest. Her bracelets and rings are not just window dressings from a department store; they’re genuine yellow gold and they look magnificent on her. She’s a stylish creature, and Dorian likes her already.

“How may I help you?” she asks pleasantly, with a thick Antivan accent.

Dorian finds himself smiling for no reason. There’s an impressive array of treats on display. He arrives at the counter and rests his hands on the warm glass, admiring the jars of candy on the back wall, all in a neat, colorful line. There’s a cold case full of tarts, choux pastry puffs, and other chilled goodies, and on top of the counter is a bell jar housing a number of delectably cute cupcakes.

“I know exactly what you need,” she says, and she turns around to fetch a jar. She offers him a truffle in a tiny, ruffled paper cup. “Dark chocolate zinfandel.”

Oh, she’s good. On the off-chance that your soul is made from steel and your sweet tooth ripped out as a child, the woman behind the counter could still convince you to consider buying something, he can tell. She’s a born merchant. She knows her clientele.

The truffle is magical, and he lets out an extended sound of complete and utter abandonment of his senses. “Mm! Mmm! I wasn’t planning on buying anything at the moment, but...would you be Josephine by any chance?”

“I see my reputation proceeds me,” she says, and her teeth are perfectly straight and white, and her smile is disarming, but in the best way. “And you are?”

“Dorian Pavus.”

The expression on Josephine’s face grows somehow more expressive and he has half a mind to ask if she’s alright as those clever eyes fill with wide-eyed recognition.

She claps her hands together. “Cullen told me all about your little outing. I’ll go fetch him right now!”

Dorian watches wordlessly as she hurries back through the curtain and a small commotion ensues where he can’t see it. A door opens, and he hears her calling out. Their voices are muffled, but he can make out snippets of their conversation.

“Cullen, your friend is here!”

“My what?”

“The handsome one! He’s up front!”

Dorian smirks a bit to himself, preening, but he startles when he hears a box drop to the floor. The voices drop even lower and he catches Josephine’s elegant laugh bubble over.

“Just go out there! Your shift is over, have a good day!”

Cullen appears, as if shoved by force from behind the curtain, looking very flustered with a small paper box in his hands. It bears the logo of the shop printed neatly on the side (it matches the logo on the ballcap he wears, hiding his curls) and on top there’s a pretty red ribbon holding it closed. He’s wearing a white t-shirt like the one Dorian had seen him in before, though this one’s got a few scuffs of dirt (or is it cocoa?) on it.

“Hi,” he says, looking entirely out of place at his own job.

He fidgets with the box, continuing to jostle whatever’s inside it. It’s rumpled on one edge, giving Dorian the impression it was the same box he’d dropped moments before. Dorian can’t imagine he’s a very good delivery boy if he destroys Josephine’s goods with his awkward jumpiness. It’s harder to believe he were ever a police officer.

“If I’d known you were stopping by I would’ve, uh, well I’m not sure what I would’ve done. I’m a bit out of sorts right now, sorry. I’ve been up since three.”

Quite an early morning. Josephine peeks out of the curtains and Dorian smiles at her.

“Think nothing of it,” Dorian says, holding up a hand. “I apologize for just barging in like this. We don’t have to follow up on that meal today, but I was just at Haven and I did want to see the place. It’s...magnificent, really. I’m impressed.”

Josephine beams at them both and backs out once more. Some of Cullen’s nerves dissipate; he seems the sort to not react favorably to surprises. Most likely prefers to plan things out beforehand to the very last detail. He’s sure in for a ride with Dorian, then.

“I could eat.”

“Well, so could I,” he says, fighting every instinct he has to not rake his eyes over Cullen’s snug-fitting work pants. (When the blond looks away and rubs at the back of his neck, Dorian gives in. Just one look can’t hurt.)

“What were you thinking of?”

In truth he has absolutely no clue. He’d left Haven with no further ideas than simply arriving at Antivan Sweets unannounced. But Dorian is not one to admit when he doesn’t know something.

“You’ll find out.”

“Just don’t...break my bank?” Cullen says, bemused, but the tension eases between his brow and he finally moves out from behind the counter. “Josie gave me these. Part of my benefits, I suppose. Just odds and ends.”

If they’re not crushed, it’ll be a mercy, but still, it’s a kind offer. “I hope there’s more of those delectable red wine truffles in there.”

“I knew you’d like her.” Cullen’s lips curl into a grin.

“Is that? A hint of smugness I sense in your voice?”

Cullen gives a throaty laugh, shrugs, and saunters out ahead of him. Never one to trail behind, Dorian quickly catches up. More layers are revealing themselves. As Cullen gets more familiar with him, new facets appear. Shy but also smug.

“I brought my car, you’re welcome to hop in.”

“Sure. I drive most of the day, so I like to take the bus or just walk whenever I can.”

“It must be convenient, everything being only a few blocks away from everything else, or so you seem to wholeheartedly believe.” Dorian grins and motions at his car to direct Cullen towards it.

Cullen laughs at his own expense, walking around Dorian’s black two-door and opening the passenger side door to slide in, still holding the pastries on his lap. His knees come close to his chest and Dorian waits for him to adjust his seat and make himself comfortable. But he never does, just sits curled up and looks over at Dorian from across the central console.

“You don’t want to stretch out? There’s room.”

“It’s fine,” he says.

Dorian shrugs and gets them disembarked. “Tell me, Mr. Rutherford, if you were trying to sell yourself to a woman, what three qualities would you list first?”

Cullen makes a distraught sound. “Oh...Maker...I don’t know.”

“Come now, don’t leave me waiting, I’ll die of excitement.”

He looks out the window, looking absurd with how uncomfortably cramped he must be feeling. “I can assure you I’m far from exciting.”

“Well,” Dorian says, slipping on his sunglasses as they turn a corner, sunlight glinting off a tall building and into his eyes, “I suppose I’ll be the judge of that.”

That throaty laugh emerges again, and Dorian feels a spark of something he won’t name, that he can’t quite place his finger on. He really has absolutely no idea where he’s headed, and he hasn’t quite got the heart to say he’s not very  hungry, either, but he finds Cullen’s company pleasant enough that he’s not terribly worried about it.

Perhaps it’s too pleasant: Cullen’s low, rumbling laughter that almost, almost makes Dorian’s stomach flop. The way the sun catches in his hair and spins it into gold. His easy smile that tugs at his eyes when he trains it on Dorian.

All these realizations coalesce like wet cement in the bottom of his gut when he becomes aware of just how inappropriate they are, just how far his mind has wandered. Dorian pulls into a pizzeria, jerking the car to make the turn in time. Pizza is cheap and versatile, it’s the best option, but he has no clue if the place is legitimately good. This is a part of town he’s unfamiliar with.

“Perfect, I was actually craving a pizza.” Cullen grunts a little when he lurches out of the car, unfolding his long limbs and stretching his legs from the cramped ride. He leaves the pastries in the car and closes the door. “You know this place?”

When Dorian pushes up his sunglasses and steps out of the car, Cullen looks over the roof at him and he’s still beaming. Maker save him from blond-haired Fereldan farm boys. He manages a thin smile that he hopes is answer enough.

On arrival, the dining room is mostly full, a good sign that the place is actually worth a damn. A placard advertises that they are well regarded by a number of sources and it gives Dorian a wealth of relief. They queue up and make their order. Cullen keeps it simple, just a medium supreme, classic hand-tossed crust, and two drinks. It’s cramped inside and Cullen speaks up to ask for it to-go before Dorian can answer to the contrary.

“Grey Warden’s Tribute is just a few minutes away,” he says.

It’s a nature park and arboretum. Dorian knows the name because Bull’s band has performed there a few times out in the amphitheater. But he’s never actually been. He likes flowers, but that’s the limit of his appreciation for nature. There’s a limit on how many crawling, buzzing things he can put up with: zero. But Cullen seems excited by the idea. Not to be a buzzkill, he goes along with it. Cullen barely knows him, and he doesn’t want to give the impression he’s high-maintenance, some kind of stereotype. If Cullen wants to go on a field trip, then so be it.

A short drive later and he coasts into a shady spot in the parking lot. The grass is terribly green and well-tended shrubs line the pathway all along the route to their destination, a picnic table near a giant Magnolia and a stand of shimmering Aspen trees. It’s much nicer than he’d expected. It’s warm and sunny and he hasn’t seen a single wasp yet.

He keeps his eye on a few evil-looking pigeons doddering around in the area, looking for a handout. He shifts protectively over his picked-over slice and scowls at the wildlife. Just to be safe. Who knows where those dirty animals have been or just how brazen they might be. He squints at a particularly noisy squirrel flitting about in the tree, twitching with alarm as it comes closer. It’s the fattest squirrel he’s ever seen.

Thankfully Cullen’s not fazed, seems right at home. He shoos off a pigeon that waddles a little too close without a second thought.

Dorian squeaks his straw up and down. “So, the redhead. Have you two gotten cozy yet?”

Instead of giving a firm indication, Cullen takes in the scenery and another large bite of pizza. He picks at some pepperoni that’s been hidden with cheese, obviously stalling. While Dorian finds this kind of deflection to be generally boring, Cullen’s cute, and he’ll gladly wait as long as needed for an answer. He looks without flinching away when Cullen meets his gaze.

“Have you got in contact with her?”

“It’s only been two days.”

Yes, but he’s gone out of his way to text Dorian again, and here they are. He’s been spooked by what happened to him on Saturday. He needs his confidence built up again before he goes out of his way to potentially repeat the event.

“Will you call her?”

Cullen just shakes his head.

Dorian can't bring himself to ask why. The practice is what matters more. He lets him be obstinate, but only so much.

“Not the right fit? Well, then,” Dorian says. “Try, try again. I can continue to help you, if you’d like.”

Cullen’s reaction is almost comical. He nearly chokes. “That is _really_ not necessary. The other night was fun, but...”

He realizes that it’s intensely stupid, and he never should have said it, but he goes right on, merrily, unto his doom. There are alarm bells going off and he’s gotten way too good at ignoring them. Getting a rise out of Cullen is too worthwhile.

“Have you really got any other options?” He shakes his head and tries to step over the insinuation. “Look, you seem like a nice enough fellow. You just need a little help selling yourself. And that’s where I come in. Wingman, remember?”

“I don’t know, Dorian.”

“It’s the beginning of summer,” he says. “The worst that can happen is that you don’t meet someone—which, square one, you’re no worse off than today—but, _but!_ If we’re successful, you end up meeting someone you like, and things progress from there, and...well...remember to invite me to your wedding, eh?”

Cullen clams up. “That’s not going to happen. N-not that I wouldn’t invite you, but, I mean…”

“Relax, Cullen. First things first. I’ve spent the last few months cooped up and practically in mourning for the untimely death of my social life,” he explains. “Let’s just go out and have fun. I get to be a social butterfly, you get to tag along and reap all the benefits. What’s there to lose?”

What’s there to gain? He’s not sure. For once, there’s no clear benefit, no leverage, no reason to try and manipulate anyone. He can admit to himself there’s something about Cullen that endears him, though. He’s almost surprised to find that his conscience is mostly clear. He likes him, genuinely. For the first time since childhood, he’s met a man he’d actually like to be friends with. It seems like a good direction, in keeping with his choice after last summer’s debacle with Bull remain willfully celibate until his cock stopped ruling his better judgement.

Might as well foster this new bud, see what sort of bloom can become of it.

He assures himself it’s a good summer project. He’s ready to reassess, pick up the pieces and have friends again, have a life.

“I know a handful of nice cafes, and believe it or not, but this is a big city, there are lots of bars where you could meet people.”

“I don’t like going to bars.”

Stubborn.

“You’ll like it if you’re with me,” he says, confident in his abilities. “Other than that, there are plenty of things to do outdoors, since you seem to like that, and at the end of the summer there’s the block party. A big shindig, one last hurrah before winter. What do you say?”

Cullen works his jaw, turns the gears inside his head. “Is all this really for my benefit?”

Dorian absently twists one of the curls of his mustache. “What do you mean?”

“Sounds more like the two of us going on a bunch of dates,” Cullen says, and he laughs a tad nervously at his own joke.

Dorian shrugs off the slight twinge that comes with casual mockery. He teases back, “No more art galleries, if I have any say in it.”

“No, no art exhibits,” Cullen says, shooting Dorian a glare with no real heat behind it before breaking into a grin. “Maker, I was stupid for buying those.”

“Not at all,” Dorian says, nudging a pepper back into place from where it threatened to fall off his pizza. He’s not hungry anymore, for no particular reason, but tries to finish his slice anyway. “I wouldn’t have ended up paying for our meal that night and where would I be now?”

Cullen smiles at him, opening his mouth as if he’s about to speak, but he stuffs more pizza in it instead and chases it with lemonade. They sit and enjoy the sound of birdsong, of leaves rustling, of cars rasping down the highway.

Dorian ruminates and ends up blurting out, “You told Josephine about me.”

“Oh. I did. She wanted to know about my date, and of course you came up. She might have gotten the wrong idea. I’m sorry about that.”

Ah, yes. He knows Cullen is straight, he doesn’t need to be reminded. Luckily, he has already decided that he’s not interested in Cullen for carnal delights. Luckily, he has made a life of sidestepping these sorts of microaggressions and he does so yet again with aplomb.

“So long as she keeps giving you treats that you can likewise share with me, I don’t mind at all. I’m rather eager to dig into those, by the way.”

Cullen pulls the box closer and opens it. While he does so, uncertainty laps gently at the back of Dorian’s mind like the tide, like perhaps he ought to think twice about getting involved, but he lets himself be lured further out to sea. Cullen doesn’t mean any harm. He’s taking things too personal, always has.

“So. Do you want my help or not?” Belatedly, he realizes what he’s really asking is, _do you want to be my friend?_ But that’s not Dorian, that’s someone who's vulnerable. That’s someone Dorian could learn a few things from.

“I’d like your friendship,” he says. He tucks in one side of his mouth in an odd sort of half smile and rubs at his forehead. “And if you’re dead set on trying to helping me find a date, just...keep your expectations relatively low.”

The breeze effortlessly sweeps past them, attempting to overthrow his carefully coiffed hair. His throat is a little tight all of a sudden. His responding “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” is a bit strained.

“Josephine says the same thing,” he sighs. “I’ve yet to learn how to do it.”

Dorian thinks about Josie’s sweet familiarity with him back at the sweets shop as he reaches into the box to taste one of her madeleines. “You’ve known each other for some time?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. You can tell?”

He takes a bite, lets the crumbly cake melt on his tongue. It’s delicately sweet, not cloying. “She seems to care a great deal about you.”

“She’s invested in helping me find happiness, I suppose.” A slight blush creeps across his features. “Like I said, she’s under the impression that we’re, um.” Dorian can’t wait to hear the end of this one. Cullen laughs dismissively and breaks a cookie in half, takes a bite, drinks, and when Dorian feels his shoulders drooping just slightly, he adds, out of the blue, “At any rate, you’re way out of my league.”

Well, it lifts Dorian’s spirits, but...he’s not wrong. They share the laugh and finish up, head back to Dorian’s car. He drops Cullen off at a bus stop near the bridge at his own request, though Dorian adamantly insists that afternoon traffic isn’t _that_ bad and he'll happily drive him home. But afternoon traffic _is_ notoriously bad and Cullen’s place is in the direct opposite direction of his apartment, on the other side of a body of water in fact. Cullen takes the rest of the pizza with him, but after he waves and walks off, Dorian sees him offering some to a homeless man on the corner. On his own street some time later, he finds a decent spot and parks, sits for a while. He’s strangely reticent to go upstairs, feeling hollow. Feeling terribly alone, even after just spending a decent afternoon in purely decent company. He reaches for his phone in the console and checks it. It’s too easy to open up his messages and begin rapidly typing one up. It’s been months since he’s heard from Bull, who has most certainly moved on with his life. He hovers over the button to send it and thinks better of it. Best not to go turning over stones when he knows he’ll be upset by what he finds under them. Instead he texts Cullen and makes plans for the following weekend.

_I have next Saturday morning off. Coffee at eleven? Hightown, on Market Street._

It’s not a great cafe, but it’s one of the more popular ones. Maybe not for their coffee, but for meeting people. It’s where he met Bull, after all. He thinks fondly but with a twinge of sadness at how it seemed all good things in his life must end. His phone buzzes in his lap and thankfully startles him out of the dangerous course his memory and his heart are bent on taking him.

_Sounds good._

It’s just enough to motivate him to get out of the car. He grabs his mail on the way up. It occupies him for a while, making him forget how empty and quiet his apartment is. He transitions right into cataloging of his books, puts a record on his cheap turntable and opens a window to let in some air while he sets to work. After a while his attention wanders, half a stack sorted into three piles; keep, sell, and “sleep on it.” He checks his phone while rubbing his sore arse from sitting on the hardwood without a cushion, and realizes he’s missed a text.

 _I really am thankful for your help_. It appears they share this as a common trait, sitting and rehashing things until you can’t help but scrutinize every word you’ve said. He can’t bring himself to reply because there’s little left to say. He climbs into a comfortable spot on the couch and turns on the TV. He keeps the phone handy, sitting on the coffee table where he’ll hear it vibrate if he’s not close enough to see it.

An hour later, _You said you liked the wine truffles?_

He replies, _You’ll learn soon enough that I like wine. Full stop._

_Good to know. :)_

He cracks a smirk at that, and it leaves a funny feeling in his chest. Maker take this man. He has his work cut out for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, cloveoil here! Thanks again for all the lovely feedback! It's what keeps us going and we'll do our best to keep updates nice and consistent.<3 Let us know if you enjoyed this chapter ;D


	4. Chapter 4

It’s just after ten and the morning crush has settled, so there’s plenty of people seated and few of them standing in line.

“Keep your eyes open for someone you'd like to talk to,” Dorian whispers, patting Cullen’s shoulder and leaving him alone in hopes of surveying where his attention falls from a distance. He needs an unbiased view of what it is Cullen really likes.

He’s not surprised to see Solas there using a power outlet in the corner, drinking what appears to be a chai and grimacing into his mug. Dorian never catches his eye and strolls to the counter, smiling at Varric on the register, an old friend, running Hawke’s business while out of town, no doubt. He is a stout man—well, a dwarf, actually—and always looks like he has something up his sleeve, like he knows more than you do, like he’s waiting to call on a favor from someone who owes him some coin.

“New friend?” he asks, leaning his big hands on the counter. He nods in Cullen’s direction.

“Yes. I, a saint, am helping him find his future sweetie,” Dorian grins, making the words sound much more sweet than necessary. “A latte for me and a drip for him.”

“How charitable of you, Sparkler,” Varric says, and his gravely voice is inflected with a false sense of sincerity. “You want single origin or—”

Dorian still rolls his eyes at the old nickname. One drunken incident with some glitter and a bottle rocket at a party and the man would never let him live it down.

“Whatever’s good. I don’t think he’ll notice the difference.”

Varric starts to punch in Dorian’s order. Down the line, a barista grinds espresso, already preparing the drinks before he’s even got his billfold out.

Dorian hands over his debit card, “I can assure you this is only because it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He’s not sure why he feels the need to elaborate, but Varric’s face is just so dubious, he can’t help himself.

“Oh?” Varric asks, looking up. “So you’re sleeping with him and finding him a wife?”

“What?” The question throws Dorian off balance, but, ever socially astute, he regains his footing quickly. “No, no,” he waves a hand for emphasis. “Just having some fun around town with a pretty face. Can you blame me? Look at him. He’s gorgeous but he needs all the help he can get. Shame he’s straighter than a lamppost.”

Dorian figures laying it on thick will throw Varric off the trail. Anyone can see that Cullen Rutherford is handsome and quite a catch, and he’d never be ashamed to be insinuated with such a specimen, but the last thing Dorian needs is for Varric, town blabbermouth, to take the situation and run off with his own imagination. Cullen would likely not appreciate rumors circulating while looking to expand his heterosexual lovelife. Dorian also didn’t need Varric’s misplaced advice about falling for the unattainable. He really should know better by now than to go down this path, but...

“Yeah if that lamppost was hit by an oncoming car and bent 90 degrees right at your dick,” Varric mutters under his breath with heavy amusement. “Curly’s been eyeing you up the entire time you’ve been over here.”

“I—what?” Dorian turns rather conspicuously and catches Cullen staring at him. Not at the blonde beauty two tables down, nor the pretty brunette who’s stealing glances from behind her book. Or even the redhead working on her laptop and shamelessly looking at him from over the screen. Cullen even has the audacity to smile and wave at him. The love-shy fool.

Perhaps this is going to be more difficult than Dorian originally thought. He returns his attention to Varric who hands back his card and waits for a retort.

The barista presents Dorian with two mugs. The latte’s foam cap is decorated with a heart.

“Enjoy,” Varric says with a wink.

Dorian nearly spills the cups in a rare misstep, wound so tight that he almost trips over a stray strap on someone’s bookbag. He recovers and ignores anyone who saw it, saunters (not trudges) his way back to the table, Cullen’s attention wavering but still mainly on Dorian.

“Thanks—“

“You’re absolute shite at this,” Dorian cuts in, exasperated. He hands Cullen his coffee.

Cullen flinches and holds the hot mug gingerly with two hands. He blows on it. “I’m sorry?”

“You very well should be,” Dorian says, raising a brow. He props one hand on his hip. “All these beautiful women that even I can aesthetically appreciate, and you’re not paying mind to a single one! Are coffee shop girls not your type? I thought this would be the perfect place for you, what with the flannel shirt and the slouching.”

“Oh hush,” Cullen grumbles into his black coffee and sips it. “I’m just...taking my time.” His eyes flicker around and Dorian hopes for a blind millisecond that he’s looking at some of the women who’ve noticed him with varying degrees of interest. But the Maker would never give him such an easy task. “They have a chess set,” Cullen says, standing up. “Do you play?”

“Do I play?” Dorian scoffs. The question catches him off guard, but Cullen’s words sound like a challenge. And challenges of intellect are something Dorian Pavus does not run away from. “You ask as if I were raised on a farm—no offense.”

Cullen elbows him gently at the dig as they walk over to their new seats, a pair of chairs on either side of a table dedicated to chess instead of newspapers or books or laptops.

“It’s fine, so long as you don’t take get angry when I win,” Cullen goads, setting down his coffee before he sits.

His eyes are determined, narrowed with impending strategies forming in his head, and Dorian knows a taunt when he sees one. But, oh, is he a sucker for being goaded into things, especially things he’s good at. Ego and all that. He sits across from Cullen and gestures over the board.

“Pick your color, my good man.”

Cullen, bless him, lets Dorian have white for the "advantage.”

As if Dorian needs one.

He pointedly ignores Varric’s prying eyes from across the shop as Cullen takes his rook four minutes later. He has plenty of time to deal with setting Cullen up with a woman later on. Plenty.

It’s about halfway through their game, legs crossed as he mulls over a new strategy since Cullen obliterated his last one, that Dorian sees someone approaching out of the corner of his eye. He’s equal parts relieved and irritated, seeing as he was eager to finish, though it’s pretty clear that Cullen has the match. But on the other hand, it’s nice to see his work isn’t all in vain.

“You boys mind if I watch you play?” he hears.

Dorian looks up and takes in the woman. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat, utilitarian bun and her stylishly thick-rimmed glasses are perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose. She’s even wearing what appears to be thrift-store flannel along with a cute, dimpled grin. It’s as if the Maker is handing them the perfect opportunity on a silver platter.

So, of course, Cullen decides to smack it out of the air like a clumsy trainee at Haven knocking over a drink on their first day. He regards her with some shy interest, chuckling a bit. His eyes don’t meet hers for long before they flit back to the board like a twitchy teenager who’s just been accused of shoplifting. The hand that is wrapped around his coffee taps out a nervous one-two-three against the side and Dorian has half a mind to reach over there and grab it to stop him.

“Not at all,” he finally says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

It’s a habit that Dorian is noticing more and more, surfacing when anything even remotely feminine-looking is lobbed in Cullen’s direction. His gaze is drawn immediately back towards the board, glowering, fully entrenched in his own strategy the moment he’s done addressing her.

She smiles between the pair of them.

“Please,” Dorian decides to cut in, all smiles suddenly as he gestures with a hand. “Have a seat.” If Cullen isn't going to get on board with this himself, Dorian will drag the man if he has to. “Perhaps you could play winner afterwards, hm?”

The woman lets out a small laugh, cute and bubbly, as she takes a seat in a plush chair between them, mug raised to her lips. Her interest in Cullen is blatant already, even by Dorian’s standards, and of course it is at this moment that Cullen utterly freezes up. Dorian waits none too patiently on Cullen to make a move first, both on the chess field and in the real world.

Thankfully the woman seems to have more initiative. Internally, Dorian thinks that that could be a good thing in a relationship. Opposites attract and all that.

“Are you regulars?” she asks.

“I am, when I have the mornings off,” says Dorian. “Him not so much. And yourself?”

She bobs her head a few times. “I stop by on occasion.”

Mindless chitchat isn’t exactly on the top of Dorian’s list of favorite activities either, but he knows the importance of it. Unlike Cullen who, despite her staring and over exaggerated laughing at anything they can manage to extract from him, remains stalwart in trying to focus on the game. He's not even doing a good job at it, because Dorian has been cheating ever since she sat down.  

Even the woman's mere fleeting glances make him sweat as his finger rests atop a bishop for an inordinate amount of time before he decides to commit, and if he does notice her admiration, he does an amazing job of appearing to be oblivious.

Dorian is trying to think of a way to get Cullen talking when the woman asks him directly, "Did you go to Skyhold, by any chance? I’ll be honest, I came over because I feel like I’ve seen you before."

Cullen shakes his head. His voice is restricted and nasal."No. You're mistaking me for someone else, I'm afraid."

"I'm sure I'd remember that face. I swear I saw you on campus."

Dorian chuckles. "Breaking up a frat party perhaps?" He looks at Cullen who is giving him a bit of a stink eye. "Civil disobedience, noise complaints?"

The woman quirks a brow, not in on the joke.

"He was a police officer," Dorian helps.

She snaps her fingers and sets down her tea. "I thought I recognized you. Rush week at my sorority, my junior year. I was so drunk I could hardly stand but I still gave you my number." She smirks and looks Cullen gratuitously up and down. "You never called."

That nervous look Dorian remembers from Haven creeps onto Cullen’s face. “Um. I-I um.”

“Small world.” Dorian watches this fiasco for only a second before he intervenes. “I’m sure it was a mere youthful misstep. You’ll forgive him, won’t you?” He looks over at poor Cullen and leans forward over the board, palms one of Cullen’s forgotten pawns from the outside corner.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t been losing sleep over it.” She gives her name, “Solona.”

Dorian introduces them both and slides his remaining rook over to steal Cullen’s bishop. He sips his latte and gives Cullen a challenging look from over the cap of steamed milk. They continue their game and drain their drinks, and Dorian notices how Cullen finally begins to make eye contact with Solona while they’re talking, but it’s with the same sort of intent one might use to look at a stop sign. Dorian can see the subliminal hints she’s giving, touching her hair and face. Who wouldn’t? Cullen is justifiably good looking. And he’s unassuming, never boasting, always a good listener. He is, however, exceptionally awkward whenever presented with passing the ball back in conversation.

Solona’s quiet while they deliberate over their game. Dorian’s question goes unanswered until she leans towards Cullen and sets the sleeve from her cup on the side table next to him. He glances down at it while she scribbles in pen on the thick paper. There isn’t a shred of deceit in his entire being, and he’s visibly affected by the sight, holding his breath.

“If you’re willing to give it another shot, I’d like to get to know you better. What do you think?” Solona asks with a coquettish smile, batting her eyes a few times, and Maker, it’s like she’s read every Randy Dowager’s article on how to flirt, but it’s convincing.

At least Dorian thinks so, if Cullen’s declining social skills are in direct correlation with his rising interest. The tips of his ears are visibly red and he backs away from the board, putting off a more dangerous gambit to take Dorian’s queen. He struggles for a place to put his hands and so he folds his arms, fidgeting. Fighting his own nerves.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll give a call, I guess. If—if that’s what you want.” He nudges his queen in for a check on his next move

“I would love nothing more.” Her grins widens into something almost feline.

Dorian takes this opportunity to slide one of Cullen’s quiet pawns one square over into a less tactically advantageous position while he’s moving his king out of attack range.

“I guess I’ll let you boys get back to it, then,” she says, her whole demeanor shifting into something more open and friendly. Dorian is suitably impressed.

Solona hangs around a bit longer to laugh at their banter (mostly Dorian’s), but she seems to especially enjoy watching Cullen wriggle uncomfortably under her low-burning stare. There’s a bit more chatter between the three of them (well, if Cullen’s “oh reallys?” and awkward nodding count as chatter), before Solona makes to stand.

“Time for me to head out,” she says, with a small stretch that reveals a sliver of stomach. Cullen misses it entirely in favor of sipping at his coffee and Dorian can really only sit there, mouth slightly agape, in awe of the man’s ability to remain unaware of the most blatant of signals. “This was fun though, and hopefully,” she turns her gaze on Cullen, “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Cullen says, absently setting down his mug. His tone holds remarkably less conviction than ‘definitely,’ but Solona thankfully doesn’t seem deterred. She must love impossible challenges in the form of socially-inept blonds much in the same way Dorian does.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Dorian grins, and Solona throws him a friendly nod before departing.

Only seconds after she leaves, Cullen tips his chin at Dorian, his eyes flashing at the other man's hands.

“Put the pieces back.” It’s the most direct thing he’s said on his own in the past half hour.

Dorian is honestly too shocked at being caught to say much else. “You think I’ve been cheating.”

“I know you’ve been cheating,” he says.

He claps the pieces back into place. “You were supposed to be taking an interest in Solona.”

Cullen shrugs.

“She was nice," Dorian emphasizes.

“Lots of people are just nice.” Cullen's rebuttal is sound, but it’s a platitude.

“Did you remember her at all?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.” He begins to stand up, takes his mug and Dorian’s and points definitively at their game. “No more cheating.”

“Where are you going?” he asks Cullen’s back as he’s walking up to the bar.

Dorian watches him drop off their dirty dishes and stubbornly refuse to make eye contact with the enchanting barista who takes his order over the espresso machine. Varric is restocking napkins and gives Dorian A Look. Cullen comes back a minute later with two more mugs of coffee and a giant cinnamon roll dripping with glaze for them to share.

“I’m sure Solona would’ve loved a cinnamon roll,” Dorian baits, tearing a chunk of it off. It’s warm and melts in his mouth, sweet and spicy in just the right way.

“It’s not big enough to share between the three of us,” Cullen lobs back. Dorian can’t really argue with that—especially when Cullen tears off his own piece and smiles as he eats it, his thumb scooping up a dribble of stray glaze on his lip before sucking it off. “Besides, this way that ridiculous sweet tooth of yours will be satisfied.” He grins, licking his thumb once more before wiping it on a napkin.

Dorian spends a little too long admiring that little slip of Cullen’s tongue. He wonders idly if this is how it’s going to be from now on. Cullen can’t function around women, but he feels safe around Dorian. When he really shouldn’t. Dorian isn’t overt in his flirtatiousness, but Cullen always responds to it accordingly. Why can’t he do the same thing with girls? He falls back on the sad sight of Cullen ditched by his date at Haven and decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s been burned. They've got to have more successes before those those walls can come down. Dorian knows this because he's spent years hiding behind his own parapets of self doubt, behind his own illusions of self-sufficiency.

“I only ate that many cookies because Josie’s baking is otherworldly,” he counters.

Cullen just shoots him a smug grin before they get back to it.

Once their game is over, nearly two hours have passed, and Cullen has emerged the victor in their drawn-out battle. They’re both putting the pieces away and Cullen pauses to hold one of the knights, inspecting it closely.

“Did you know that chivalry originates with the Chantry?”

Dorian hadn’t known that, but it seems to follow reason. The Chantry is the origin of many outdated ideas in Thedas. “I imagine they found warriors and chevaliers to be a bit...?”

Cullen inserts, “Bloodthirsty?”

“That’s a good word, yes. Unruly is another. It’s funny to see how the Chantry can have a profession solely devoted to the lopping of heads turned into something representing purity and virtue.”

Cullen smiles and puts the knight in the drawer before sliding it shut. “I used to be fascinated with stories about brave heroes defending the weak from evil.”

Dorian gets up and checks his pockets for all his things before they depart. And you grew up to be a policeman, he thinks, but hasn’t the guts to say it out loud. He’s not sure how well it’d be received, since Cullen has been so mum on the topic of his service. Still, he’s not terribly surprised. Cullen has that way about him, something that suggests a hardworking ethic, good ethics in general, and a smidge of innocence.

“Don’t forget that,” he says, pointing out Solona’s number.

Cullen takes it and heaves a beleaguered sigh. “How could I forget.”

“Was she too pushy?” Dorian asks.

His only reply is a shrug.

They exit out into the midday sun and Dorian picks up the conversation where they left off.

“Know any other thrilling factoids about Chantry legend?” He starts down the sidewalk and Cullen paces him on the outside edge, hands deep in his pockets.

“You’re making fun of me,” Cullen says, and he goes to reach for his neck, ruffles his fingers through his hair.

Dorian’s almost jealous that he can’t ever do that for him, drag his nails over the man’s scalp, pull him down to steal a kiss when no one’s looking, but he squashes the little daydream before it grows wings.

“Perish the thought. I went to school for sociology, I’m fascinated by that sort of thing.”

“Really?” Cullen slows in the parking lot, watching Dorian. He seems almost mystified to find someone who doesn’t rebuke his specific interests, but rather greets them with open arms.

“Is it very odd that I might find excruciatingly specific interests to be quite endearing?”

Cullen bashfully shakes his head but doesn’t respond, at a loss for words, as most are in Dorian’s presence after two cups of coffee.

“You did fairly well today. Don’t overthink it,” says Dorian. He comes to his car and lightly tosses his keys from hand to hand.

“We’ll have to play again,” Cullen suggests. “I have a board at home, I’ll drag it out of storage.”

“Absolutely. If you promise to call Solona.”

“Oh.” Cullen clears his throat loudly and looks around, possibly at his car, not quite ready to leave. Dorian glances around the lot, wondering which car is his. “Yeah. I will.”

“Spectacular,” Dorian says as he leans on the roof of his car, squinting into the sun. “I’m afraid I must be off to work. All these outings aren’t going to pay for themselves, which, speaking of, what do you think of pool?”

“Pool? I like it well enough,” he shrugs.

“Great, I’ll text you with details.” He retrieves his sunglasses, slides them on and smiles, not a cheap one but better and more authentic than some he’s had to use lately. “Enjoy your day.”

Cullen gives a little salute and heads off to his car. Dorian’s going to be late if he dawdles any more and so he leaves for Haven, rehearses in his mind what he’s willing to tell Lavellan about what he's got up to, and prepares for the worst. Saturday dinner service.

The parking lot is intensely full, and the rest of his workweek is looking much the same.

He feels a tightness in his chest, tension creeping up his neck warning of a migraine if he doesn’t stop and take time to relax. He knows himself. He’s going to need to take a break before returning to this side project of his. Free time is valuable, and weekends are worth even more. They provide him with spare time for keeping up with his own mental hygiene, the little rituals that keep him sane and functional. After all this, could honestly use some downtime. In the back room at Haven he looks ahead to the following workweek on the schedule board and makes accommodations. Before clocking in, he texts Cullen.

_Next week, Thursday night at 8, The Smoking Crow. Wear something nice._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It’s on the lakeside. There are faint stars dappling the sky on the night of their next encounter, and the occasional boat passes beneath the bridge where The Smoking Crow resides. The place is notorious for bartenders who pour heavy-handed and want nothing to do with you. The young people come in droves on weekends and have little distance to travel out the front door before retching over the handrails into the water. In certain sects it’s almost a rite of passage to hurl the contents of one’s stomach into the lake, hopefully missing any persons lacking common sense enough to linger on the gangways beneath the main thoroughfare.

This is precisely why Dorian’s chosen to come on a Thursday.

He’s walking over the cobblestones and distinctly recognizes with hazy fondness a trash can he puked into some years ago, when first moving to Orlais. For some, such as himself, the rite of passage took a long time to finish, took many bars and many trash cans to complete. Even now he thinks he hardly feels like an adult, but he knows now that drinking won’t help matters.  Tonight's focus isn't the drowning of his sorrows anyway. It’s about carefully guiding Cullen into a meet cute of some sort, and he’s even consciously toned down his outfit to try and better camouflage how poorly Cullen might have dressed himself. His hair is styled messily (but not his mustache) and his dark green chinos are awfully skinny, cuffed above the ankle to show how he brazenly wears his sleek leather shoes with no socks (that anyone else can see). He hasn’t a single scrap of plaid or tartan to his name, save for a coat with soft flannel lining for the wintertime, so his shirt is a chambray instead of a lumberjack’s pajamas.

Speaking of lumberjacks.

He spots Cullen’s mop of cornsilk waves mingling around the entrance, thrown into stark lighting under the singular yellow spotlight that illuminates the hanging wooden sign. He’s wearing a pale blue oxford, rucked up at the elbows as usual, and a pair of dark gray shorts that are almost scandalously high cut so that Dorian can see his knees and the insertion of his considerably nice looking quads. As Dorian’s eyes wander down he blinks hard at the suede boating shoes that look well-loved but well-tended. He dares to ask just who it was that loaned Cullen such an outfit for the occasion.

“It’s not bad, is it?”

Cullen forgoes greetings entirely and cuts straight to laying open his insecurities like a flayed slab of meat. The way he stands, shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked into his pockets, he looks like he’s about to be marched off to the chopping block rather than a game of pool and a few drinks.

Dorian crosses his arm over his chest and props up the other, curls one end of his mustache provocatively. “No, not at all. I might not have chosen it, but...it’s quite fetching.”

He makes a show of eyeballing Cullen all over again, only to convey that he’s genuinely impressed. Cullen smiles sheepishly at the overt attention.

“Stop that,” he says, turning towards the building.

“I’m serious. These are your clothes?”

Cullen rolls his eyes good-naturedly as he holds the door for Dorian. Always so polite. “Last I checked.”

“Did Josephine help you at all?”

He mutters something that Dorian can’t hear over the noise of the bar. Dorian hums anyway, taking in the atmosphere. It’s certainly crowded, but thankfully not rowdy. Music is playing in one quadrant and television screens in the other are playing a variety of live sports broadcasts. In the distance he thinks he sees an open pool table and points it out. Cullen is a smidge taller, has an easier time parting the masses to let them through.

They’ve texted a few times since Hightown, the other weekend. It’s been mostly radio silence on Dorian’s part, because it’s too easy to fall back on bad habits that way. It’s one thing to start reaching for the phone to text Cullen about minor annoyances or about a cloud that looks just like Divine Justinia, and another thing altogether to sit up and re-read and agonize over every little thing he responded with, wanting to send just one more message, needing just a little more reciprocation to feel validated late at night when he can’t sleep and his mind is racing. But what’s impressed him is that Cullen is surprisingly dry and witty via text message. He’s sent Dorian one or two pictures from around the city, one of them a mabari dog wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses tied up outside of an ice cream parlor, jowls forming a slobbery smile with tongue lolling out. It’s something he should be doing with Solona, or with that other girl from the Crown and Lion.

“Have you gotten in touch with Solona?” He asks, getting a nod but no eye contact. Prying information from this man is more difficult than scrounging up rent money. “And?”

“We saw a movie last weekend.”

“I’m amazed. You didn’t think to tell me? Did you have fun, by any chance? Are there plans for more? Why didn’t you invite her tonight?”

Cullen actually grimaces and the two of them have to stop talking in order to weave through the crowd all jostling at the bar. Dorian turns his nose at a particularly rank-smelling group of fellows doused in cheap aftershave and body spray. When they surface from the pack of bodies, Cullen thankfully continues without any prompting.

“The movie was great. Wasn’t until afterwards that it fell apart.”

“How so?” They arrive at the pool table and Dorian steps to move into Cullen’s line of sight so he can’t keep dodging eye contact.

He sighs. “Maker, she’s just so...young. And smart. I had no clue how to talk to her. I walked her back to her car and it was just. Awful. She was miserable and so was I.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“She told me she’s leaving town,” he says, and he covers his mouth with his hand, shakes his head. “Even I’m aware of what that means.”

Dorian stalls for only a moment before he pats his back once, a quick slap, in consolation. He’s careful with how he touches other men in unfamiliar surroundings, always has been since—well, since less pleasant days. He tries to put a bit of force into it, enough to let anyone looking know they’re “square,” or whatever. No untoward gestures here, just two male friends and a masculine thump on the lung, to remind you we’re not being gay by being in close proximity to one another.

“I’m glad you followed through, at any rate. We’ll do better. Find you a gal who lives for absolute silence and awkward glances.”

“Might as well just get a blow-up doll, then,” he slides in, almost under his breath, possibly hoping Dorian wouldn't hear it.

But Dorian does and chokes on a surprised laugh. “And where’s that sense of humor been all this time?”

Cullen gives only a sly smile; there and gone in a flash.

They agree to order a pitcher. Dorian doesn’t care for beer, but it’s cheaper than what he’d really like to have. They split hairs over which tap they’d like to spend their money on, and end up with something Dorian can marginally enjoy while resting on the other side of the pool table as Cullen gets the billiards ready to break. Lots of other lads are there, some of them catch Dorian’s eye, and he holds onto his cue for dear life. He nearly excuses himself to the restroom to follow a haughty and rakishly gorgeous man with a pair of fuck-me eyes the likes of which Dorian can hardly defend himself from. He resigns himself to stick by Cullen’s side, because just as the whiff of the man’s cologne begins to fade, they’re a few turns into the game and a pair of young women sidle up to watch and wait for a table to open.

Dorian invites them to play doubles while Cullen worriedly tries to piecemeal together his next shot. He laughs and leans on his cue. Cullen glances at the girls and blushes up to his eyebrows and bounces the cue ball into a side pocket.

“Scratch.”

“I’m just warming up,” he says.

“And I’m already on fire.”

Cullen might be a strategist on the field of chess, but Dorian is a wizard with a pool cue. He’s spent enough time as a barfly to pick up a few tricks, and he gets better as the game progresses. It goes blindingly fast, and playing double gives him the chance to hang back and watch between rounds. It becomes rapidly apparent just who the sharks are. Cullen plays with an extremely cute Antivan woman whose name Dorian never cares to learn. She’s much shorter and has an infectiously loud laugh, and they make for a nice picture together. Cullen manages not to bumble over her too much when they trade places, but accidentally brushes against her once or twice and looks almost like steam might shoot out his ears. They’re a delight to witness, but make a terrible team. Dorian plays against them with her companion, who by comparison is absolutely wicked, and that suits him just fine.

The losers take their seats and let the winners play against one another. Thus, Cullen is sitting on a bar stool next to his partner. She has a warm brown complexion, a button nose and big eyes, her ruddy hair in a complicated twist. Dorian’s thrilled to see them both chatting and nodding at one another. With that taken care of, he cuts his eyes at his competition, a beautiful creature, Rivaini, lanky and curly-haired. She narrows her eyes right back at him. Where there had once been a powerful alliance there is now only contention.

They empty the pitcher, and when Dorian opens his billfold he thinks he might see a moth fly out of it. But he knows he’s got money to spare, and overtime’s coming up, so he buys another pitcher. The Rivaini buys bacon-wrapped peppers and looks fondly at her friend whenever she laughs. Wordlessly she shifts her focus to Dorian. There’s something in the way she holds her cue that gives Dorian the impression that if Cullen is a jerk, she’ll wreck them both personally. The cue is an inelegant weapon, he thinks, and she might do him a better favor if she uses a tire iron instead.

Macabre thoughts aside, they get on quite well, if cutthroat competition and ad hominem jabs are anything to go by (which in Orlais, they definitely are, and to a lesser degree in Tevinter.)

He puffs up his feathers every time one of his striped balls lands in a pocket, often glancing to see if Cullen’s watching. He is, sometimes, but he’s mostly talking to his lady. Good for him. The game spins out over the course of a half hour because they’re calculating in lining up their shots, knowing something unspoken is on the line here. They circle the table like vultures. No bets are made, but it’s credibility they’re vying for.

It’s a close match, but Dorian wins, owing to how his skill seems to increase exponentially as he works through two more glasses of beer. She takes the defeat better than he would have.

Casting a glance at Cullen and his new acquaintance, Dorian excuses himself to the restroom. The devilishly sexy man from earlier is long gone by now and as he’s washing his hands, he looks in the mirror and shakes his head at what’s become of him. When he first arrived in this city, he’d had no qualms about initiating an anonymous tryst in the bathroom stall.

He’d also had a trust fund to fall back on instead of a job to hold down, and no romantically-inept heterosexuals to deal with. Things have changed on those fronts.

It’s tempting to consider moistening up his dry spell, but his heart’s not in it. He actually approves of the change in himself. The new Dorian is considerate. He’s got his friend out there who needs him. If Cullen’s rubbing off on him, at least this aspect of his character looks and feels pretty good. But it does occur to him that perhaps shaming Cullen at pool isn’t the best way to help him get a date.

But he does feel a little left out on the romance. Just a little.

Along with his hands, he washes himself of any self-pitying thoughts. If Cullen winds up occupied with the young woman for the rest of the night, he makes a spur of the moment promise to himself to go and be salacious with the boys two tables down. Just for a second. One of them is silver-haired but looks young, has a neatly trimmed hairdo and an expensive watch, and he’s been caught more than once looking Dorian’s way while bent over the pool table.

But, first things first. He needs to get back and check on those lovebirds if he’s to have any luck ending up between some unfamiliar sheets any time soon.

When he arrives back at their table, the balls are racked and Dorian is ready to give Cullen a chance at redemption, but the man is otherwise occupied. Not in any sense Dorian had been expecting tonight, either. He’s busy trying to soothe and placate the woman currently sobbing into his shoulder. She’s weeping like he’s just broken the news that a beloved family pet has been put down.

She lets out a strangled, hiccuping cry. It’s an awful sight.

The other one is there too, looking equal parts panicked and remorseful, making hurried apologies and trying to drag her friend off from where she’s attached herself to Cullen’s arm. Dorian thinks fast and grabs a handful of clean cocktail napkins from the bar, quickening his stride. It feels like ground zero at Haven whenever they’ve rented the space to a wedding party, just waterworks everywhere and lots of placating. He turns up just in time to see what in the hell Cullen has done wrong.

The friend currently not in hysterics explains the situation. “She’s just broken up with her boyfriend recently.” She looks pathetically at Dorian as if he can help her. “We came out to try and take her mind off of it.”

“It’s fine,” says Cullen. He pets the smaller woman and she withdraws, sniffling, looking up into his eyes. “You’re going to be all right.”

Dorian’s floored by the commanding yet personable tone in Cullen’s voice. The kind of voice emergency responders use to calm the injured or to rally a bystander. He’s matter-of-fact but gentle in delivery. He’s surprisingly keen to her situation and seems to know just what to say. It’s half a wonder he doesn’t cup her face like a den mother and offer her a glass of warm milk before sending her to bed.

“You’re going to hurt for a while,” he says, “but it’ll get better every day.”

She snuffles into a napkin offered by Dorian and gets up. “Thank you. I’m sorry I ruined your evening.”

“Nothing of the sort,” says Dorian. “Will you be all right?”

Her friend pushes the woman’s purse into her hands. “We’re going to go get some fresh air.” She steers her away.

Dorian hears the little one wailing a few feet away, “He was so nice. Why couldn’t my asshole boyfriend sit and listen and let me cry like that?” She squeals into a napkin even harder as they make their way out onto the riverfront.

“Unbelievable.” Dorian pushes his hair back out of his face and sits on the stool next to Cullen. He offers the last of their porter, but Cullen holds up a hand to decline it.

He’s not upset, not like someone else might have been if a prospective date had ended the night by incessantly crying over another man. Dorian cannot even fathom how he’d have reacted. Most likely with a lot of justified fury and lots more alcohol.

“Look at you. I might start calling you the One Date Wonder.”

“That was hardly a date,” he balks.

“Well, there’s certainly not going to be another one, is there?” He’s mildly irritated, but he can’t help how pleased his voice sounds. He nudges Cullen’s foot resting on the stool crossbeam with his own.“We’re going to keep doing this until you get a second date, you know?”

They sit back and look at the televisions. Sports hardly interest Dorian at all but it’s something to look at instead of Cullen’s wry little smile.

“If you say so.”

Cullen’s response is appropriate, even classifiable as terribly blase, but it catches on a hook in Dorian’s chest just for a moment before he focuses more closely on the television screen. There are well-built men in close contact with another while in tiny spandex. Such a thing could always be relied upon to take his mind off his worries. He’ll just have to try harder with Cullen, drag the man around to all the sights and scenes until something clicks.

Surely there’s someone out there who can hold him down for more than one date.

“Wanna play another round?” Cullen asks, nodding towards the table.

“What, trying to reclaim some of your dignity?”

“Luckily for me, I have very little left to lose at this point,” Cullen chuckles, and Dorian figures he can indulge him in one more game.

It might not be the steamy night of passion he’d envisioned for either of them, but Cullen is good company. With a couple more drinks, he gets tipsy and lets his eyes loiter on Cullen’s body, the way his clothes move and stretch over his muscles. Surely just looking couldn’t hurt. He forgets about the boys at the other table in no time. Before long, the bar is even more crammed than before, and there are jealous eyes on their pool table. They pay their tab and leave. Outside, Cullen asks Dorian if he can take a minute to follow him to his car. It causes a little jump in Dorian’s heart rate.

The street is wet from a capricious rain. Dorian muses on what type of scenario this might be, if Cullen’s getting more receptive to his particular type of friendliness. He lets Cullen stay a few strides in front and uses the opportunity to gather the little details he’s missed. Soft curls at the nape, broad shoulders, tapered waist, a structured gait. Cullen’s hands are perpetually in his pockets, and from this angle he can see how it causes the fabric of his shorts to grow taut across his rear.

Dorian knows he’s a little drunk, and he knows that this is exactly the kind of soft opening he’ll have a hard time refusing if Cullen even remotely wants to go down the avenue. The avenue in question being a smashed bit of over-the-clothes heavy petting, maybe a little more. Dorian wets his lips but he demands that he not let Cullen kiss him, if it even comes to that. They head in the direction of the overpass leading to the bridge where there’s a very shady, improperly lit parking lot.

“Here we are,” he says.

In comparison to Dorian’s classy little two-door, Cullen’s...station wagon is very utilitarian. But that isn’t exactly a fair classification. It’s a hatchback, and Dorian recognizes the little numbers on the back indicating it as sport model. It’s a few years old, but it’s in good shape. It’s ruby red and has roof rails, because Cullen is into the outdoors. Probably has a mountain bike and a kayak or something. He can easily imagine the Rutherford family vacation, how Cullen must have gone camping as a boy, because that is how these habits are manifested. The thought of a young Cullen in the wilderness draws forth the image of a Boy Scout.

That’s something Dorian can only grasp at through vague associations. He never went fishing as a boy, never had a golden retriever named Spot, or started a campfire with his own two hands. His mother had a cat that once held him hostage in the parlor.

While he’s internally rummaging up a suitable quip, he watches Cullen unlock the door and kneel inside, pop open the glove box. He comes back to standing and hands over a crumpled white paper bag. From the looks of how it’s been folded down on itself, it’s been manhandled a bit. Dorian unrolls the crimped edge and can easily identify the Antivan Sweets logo printed on the front. Inside he can see a neat little row of four chocolate truffles of different decoration, all dark chocolate.

“Are these-?”

Cullen nods. He holds his keys and absentmindedly rifles through them, jingle jangle. “Ah...there’s merlot, pinot noir, and cab-sav. Oh, and syrah.”

Dorian can’t help but feel one side of his mouth pulling into a smile. He rolls the fold back down and ignores how his belly twinges with want. How easy it could be to push Cullen up against the car and whisper hotly into his ear, offer services to help take his mind off his anxiety around women. It would unwind them both. No strings attached. Mutual benefit.

And then he remembers Varric’s self-congratulatory little smirk and knows instantly that it would be a poor decision. Dorian is not that kind of man anymore, and he needs to prove it to himself and everyone else who know him. He’s drunk, but there’s no excuse.

So, he only says “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not sure I deserve it,” he says, “but it’ll be a cold day in hell when Dorian Pavus refuses a gift of wine or chocolate.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not quite ready to go home yet. I thought I might take in the sights. There’s a late night food stall down the way run by a gentleman from Seheron.”

There’s Tevinter influence in food from Seheron. Reminds him of home in only the best way.

“I have work in the morning, so,” Cullen says, and he lets it trail off. He sort of extends his hand out and Dorian looks at it for a moment.

“Is that what we do now? Shake hands?”

Cullen shrugs and puts his hand back in his pocket. “Sorry. Old habit.”

He’s the sorry one for making Cullen feel bad about being a nice person. He puts on a false smile instead and tells him, “You made a good effort tonight. Drive safe?”

The hatchback eventually pulls out of the lot and Dorian’s back on the cobblestones, waving goodbye. He carries his truffles in one hand with his arms folded behind his back. The sky is clear overhead. There’s an airplane coming in for approach to the municipal airport. The city skyline on one side is brilliantly lit, never showing signs of real slumber, and on the other side of the lake the eastside looks humble and inviting, quiet, wholesome. He finds his way to the food cart, crossing paths with too-drunk men and women stumbling on the uneven pavement, and stands in line to order a spicy kebab. A couple kiss brazenly in front of everyone and are subject to a number of whistles and some jeering. He doesn’t look at them. He makes eye contact with someone else in line, a younger looking man with his hair buzzed up one side, a nose ring, and a smoldering look that borders on the derisive.

With food in hand, wrapper crinkling as he tries to manage a bite without dripping, burning, or spilling any on himself, he walks the long way back to his car. He winds up safely home, with no one in the passenger seat, which is almost a miracle because he’s seen so many gorgeous men tonight that he’s almost angry at himself for sticking to his newfound morals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, cloveoil here! Hope you're all enjoying this so far, and digging the building.....something or other...... between Cullen and Dorian :) I suppose this chapter marks a bit of a shift, or at least the beginning of one, so hold onto your pants and find some Tension Tamer tea bc these two have a lot of UST coming up. As always, all your comments, kudos, and bookmarks keep symmetry and I going, so thank you for all your feedback so far!
> 
> See you next update! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! I know I must sound like a broken record, but, genuinely, thank you so much for all your feedback! symmetry and I appreciate it so much! Here's this week's chapter, which is actually a two-parter, so expect the saucy conclusion of it next week ;)

They’re bar-hopping, on their third and final stop of the night.

It’s over two months into his self-proclaimed quest to Help Cullen Find a Woman. So far not one of these exploits has been even a remote success. Cullen performs well enough while he’s out with Dorian, but he always finds a reason to turn them down, to never call. Out of the plethora of options he’s been given, he’s only gone on two or three dates and then never heard from them again. Not even the ones practically throwing themselves at his feet are capable of getting him to take them home. Dorian has seen one such creature literally crawl into his lap, willing to do all the work. Cullen had rushed to the men’s room where he disappeared for a disconcertingly long time until Dorian found him pretending to be sick just to have an excuse not to go back out there. Dorian was surprised he wasn’t trying to wedge himself through the tiny, rectangular window above the urinals.

He’s infuriating. There’s no rhyme or reason for his rejections and he always has an excuse. But he brings another round of drinks over, beer for him and a glass of wine for Dorian, sliding out coasters (because of course he’d be that kind of person) before setting them down on the table.

And it is here, sniffing and swirling his wine, finding himself tiring of Cullen’s stubbornness that he royally fucks up.

“Any plans for the week?” asks Cullen, trying to sip nonchalantly at his drink that perspires enough for the two of them.

He knows it’s just yammer, something to occupy the silence, but it feels like Cullen is already trying to plan for their next outing while not even caring to make an attempt at the current one. He doesn’t want to answer any of Dorian’s prickly questions about why he hasn’t danced with the woman who begged him to join her earlier, why he never kissed the girl who purposefully bumped into him chest-first and tried to spill his drink the Friday before last, why he hasn’t just let Dorian loose and told him to forget about it, since he obviously doesn’t care. He’d given up his Friday shift, a promise of good tips and overtime, in order to drag Cullen to an uptown mixer. And for what?

Cullen glances at Dorian and then just as quickly looks away to gaze at a television hanging over the bar.

Over the past few weeks, Dorian has become accustomed to Cullen’s tics and habits, cataloguing them in hopes of playing them like a deft hand at cards, endearing the big idiot to any women he tried to send his way. Touches of his curly hair, his neck, lack of eye contact, fidgeting with his hands. All easy tells. Why he seems so nervous at the moment is a mystery. The man evades all attempts at women flirting with him, never makes any of those candidly witty comments he conjures when it’s just the two of them. He never asks what _they’re_ up to, whether _they’d_ like to make plans.

Dorian narrows his eyes and lets out the first thing that comes to mind. “Probably working all week and then drinking myself into a stupor to celebrate my birthday.”

Shit. He grits his teeth. There it is, the big hush-hush secret he’s done so well to keep hidden from everybody, and he’s spilled it all over the table. To Cullen. To this regrettably charming and considerate man he’s known for less than a season. To Cullen who always brings him treats from Josephine’s bakery, who texts to ask how he’s doing after a few days without contact. Cullen, with his siblings and his big family who love one another, who probably celebrate birthdays together.

“Birthday?”

Oh Maker no, he hadn’t meant to bring it up at all, had nearly forgotten it himself, but Cullen is already excited about it and Dorian is pursing his lips and glowering and shaking his head in dismay. He can practically see Cullen’s wagging tail and perked ears.

“Are you having a party? Am I invited?”

“No.” He amends, “If there were, I…”

“There’s no party...that you’re aware of.”

He barks out a laugh. “I assure you there is no party.”

“Then you should come over for dinner.” Cullen looks sincere, his hands finally ceasing their fiddling with the paper label of his beer. He’s made quite the mess picking at it. “You could invite a few people, if you like.”

“Cullen—”

“Worst case scenario, I can get takeout if I burn the kitchen to hell and back.”

“I appreciate—”

“I can look up some recipes,” he barges forward, seemingly not hearing Dorian’s half-hearted protests. “What do you like?”

“Cullen!”

He stops, looks at Dorian with a curious expression that begins to wilt into concern.

“That sounds…” He has to reach for it, but it isn’t exactly a lie. He manages to finish, if a bit flatly, “Wonderful.”

“Really?”

He gulps. “Yes. But...no other guests.”

“All right. Is there something wrong?”

He shakes his head. It’s only a huge disappointment to be reminded that he’s older, that his family is still unable to accept him, that he’s nowhere near where he’d like to be, and it’s making him rude and short-tempered with the only person he can rightly call his friend at the time being.

“No, I just...we spend so much time going out. It might be nice to just have a quiet night in.”

“What day is it?”

Dorian tells him. He’s long since secured the day—and the following—off from work. “It’s Wednesday.”

And that’s how he’s damned himself to an afternoon of pushing a shopping cart through the supermarket on a weekday afternoon.

The poignant red bubble under ‘missed calls’ has formed a lump in his throat. No matter how many times he re-pockets his phone in hopes of ignoring it, the guilt never passes. The only reason he isn’t already eight drinks deep and face down on his sofa by six is the sheer fact that Dorian has slipped up in making a true friend in Cullen Rutherford.

Cullen picked him up near his apartment an hour ago, and he’s been forced to endure Cullen’s plaintive good mood in the midst of his own melancholy ever since. He’s downright lugubrious and wouldn’t wish his company on anyone, but Cullen’s patience is unshakeable.

The washed out lighting contrasts horribly with the bright colors of the packaging that lines the aisles. A headache is forming behind his eyes. Dorian doesn’t usually enjoy grocery shopping on a good day, let alone on his birthday. He’s a man who prefers the ease and quick convenience of cereal, of fruit eaten out of hand, and staples of frozen veg, rice, and other things that last well into the week when he’s tired and has even less patience than usual. Frozen meals never used to have a place in his refrigerator, but they do now. Preparing food for only one is often just a waste of time, in his opinion.

A pair of unfocused children chase after their mother, cutting in front of him. Dorian glares, jerking the cart to stop from hitting them. Down the aisle is Cullen, an armful of goods cradled against his chest as he examines two jars of sauce that, from where Dorian stands behind the cart, appear exactly alike.

“Which one do you think we should get?” Cullen asks as he approaches, reading the labels with same concentration one might use to defuse a bomb.

Dorian has a fleeting vision of Cullen as a young boy, his mother subjecting him to what Cullen is doing to Dorian presently.

“Whichever is fine,” Dorian says, rolling to a slow stop. He’s leaning on the handle of the cart much like a disinterested teenager and he’s already tired of pretending not to be irritable about...well, everything.

“Do you like mushrooms?” Cullen asks, looking up. Probably some old Rutherford Family Recipe flashes before his eyes because his gaze turns contemplative, hands weighing the sauce jars up and down in thought before returning to the present moment. “I thought I might use store-bought and liven it up with fresh tomato, some basil, onion, mushrooms…”

He puts one of the jars in the cart and wanders back down the aisle to put the other jar back on the shelf. Dorian sighs and watches him further inspect the wall of pasta, yet another impossible decision to make without long speculation.

“Are you sure you don’t want pork chops? Steak?”

Dorian shrugs, waving a hand, sending his attention elsewhere. “You’re the chef de cuisine here. It’s your call.”

“But it’s your birthday.”

Cullen’s voice suggest a pout, and oh, there’s that hangdog look in his eye again. It’s the one that Dorian finds that he just can’t say no to. It’s been a gradual thing, recognizing the depth of Cullen’s sincerity, and much like quicksand Dorian has found himself in deep with no recourse for escape but to patiently wait for help without struggling. It’s a disarming quality he has that makes women feel comfortable around him. If he’d show some initiative, if he’d settle on someone for more than one excursion, it’s sure to get him farther than Dorian’s machinations ever could.

“It’s your kitchen, and you’re the one who’s cooking,” Dorian repeats, and he tries—really tries—to add some enthusiasm this time. “Just make whatever you want to eat, I’m sure I’ll like it.”

Once satisfied on a premium package of noodles, Cullen leads them to the next aisle. He looks at seasoning and weighs the containers of oregano and thyme in either hand, as if enough deliberation will solve their problems. He dwells in his own mind without bothering Dorian any further, flits around the store to pick up things he’s forgotten as Dorian meanders slowly up and down.

An onion, heritage tomato, and good quality olive oil all wind up in the basket. Dorian isn’t sure how many mouths he’s intending to feed, but right now it looks like it’s enough for a large family. Like Cullen’s family. And that thought sends him into a cold sweat. The thought of sitting through a big dinner on his birthday doesn’t mingle very nicely with the missed phone call that still sits in his pocket like a leaden weight.

“I’m just gonna head around the corner to grab something to drink and then we can go, all right?”

“Certainly,” he says, deadpan. Not even the mention of wine can rouse him from the cloud of self-pitying miasma he’s enrobed himself with.

The sooner he can get today over with—without offending Cullen—the sooner he can go home and listen to the Annual Pavus Family Phone Call of Disappointment, drown it out with extraordinarily loud music and clean-burning Anderfels vodka, and get on with his life. Cullen shoots him one last worried look and Dorian feels the guilt stab needle-like into his chest, knowing the man is trying his best to work with his sulking bad mood and make the best of it. Before he can make amends, however, Cullen is gone.

Dorian turns his sour face towards the generic, smiling mascots on the packaging of the cereal boxes beside him. They are hopelessly free of worries or the burden of actually being alive.

“This is all your fault, somehow,” he mutters, giving one of the boxes a light shove backwards. It only continues to mock him.

“Still guilty as charged.” A low, rumbling voice makes the hair on Dorian’s neck stand on end. He stiffens at the intrusion of such a familiar voice. “Though I’m not sure what I’ve done this time.”

There’s a pause that breaks like pause after a peal of thunder, and it shatters into a crack of laughter that startles Dorian into finally turning around.

“Bull,” he’s breathless and feels his heart thumping madly behind his ribs.

“Dorian,” he says, and he sounds a little softer. “Good to see you.”

Dorian can’t exactly say the same. “Y-you too. I didn’t think you were in town.”

“The band is taking a break,” he shrugs. “I stopped by Haven the other day looking for you. Sera said you’ve been spending all your time with some new bloke?”

“It’s...not what you think.”

“Too bad.” His smile shifts into one more earnest. “How are you doing?”

He can’t help but snort and begin to push the cart down the aisle to keep from having to look at Bull. He’s so big, stuffed into a ratty t-shirt and cardigan. He’s still into those hideous cloth trousers (clown pants, really,) looking like he just rolled out of bed. Dorian can smell his cologne, and it brings back too many memories that feel too sad on a day like today. He scans the grocery store for Cullen and rounds the corner to the next aisle.

He knows exactly what Bull is asking. “I’m fine. Are you and—”

“Trevelyan.” Bull is carrying a basket and Dorian sweeps his eyes to the side to inform himself of its contents. There’s a carton of ice cream and other sundries. “It’s all good. Tell me about your new bloke.”

“I told you it’s not like that,” he hisses, and he spots Cullen by his blond hair walking down the other end of the aisle, looking for him. “That’s him now. Please don’t say anything about...just…”

“Don’t worry, Dorian. I got it.” Bull smiles and nods his head slightly at Cullen, who’s coming up the linoleum with a question in his eyes. “Hey.”

Cullen looks at Dorian first and then up at Bull. He’s holding a bottle of wine and a long baguette like a sword and shield and it makes Dorian laugh nervously. “Hello.”

“This is my friend, Bull,” says Dorian, trying to compose himself. “Bull, this is Cullen.”

Bull just smiles down at him for a long moment. He has this intuition with people, it’s uncanny. He’s only got one eye left from some gnarly accident—no one knows the true story of what happened—but it’s plenty enough for the Qunari to peer right into your soul. Cullen starts to blanch under Bull’s scrutiny and then his face firms up into a hard, returning stare. Dorian has never seen Cullen in “officer mode” but this must be very much like it, as close as he ever hopes to get.

“You two planning an Antivan dinner?”

“Obviously,” says Dorian, rolling his eyes. “Cullen, do you think you can take the cart and start checking out without me? I just need a few minutes.” He digs his wallet out and shoves the whole thing into Cullen’s hand.

His uneasy hesitance can be read on his body quite easily. Like a dog, his eyes are piercing on Bull’s face, and his shoulders are high, arms stiff. He looks at Dorian and gives a little nod, stiffly wrangles the cart around.

“I’ll meet you up front, then.” His voice is cold.

Dorian dismisses him with a pleasant “I won’t be long,” and then waits until Cullen disappears at the end of the aisle. He follows Bull towards the back of the store where the giant man mulls over the yogurt, cottage cheese, and pudding. As they’re talking, Dorian’s phone buzzes again and again, another phone call he won’t be answering.

“You’re not going to get that?”

“It’s my family.” Dorian presses the lock button through his pocket to send the call to voicemail. “You and I both know what they’re up to.”

“I thought it might be that time,” says Bull. He puts a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and squeezes it. Dorian leans into the touch as if it were a hug, but the squeeze is just this side of too-hard. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Does it ever get easier?”

“That’s up to you, I think.” Bull lifts his hand and they walk down the refrigerated aisle. “Tell me about Cullen.”

“We met at Haven. His date stood him up and I pitied him. I’ve devoted myself to helping him find true love. Now, don’t look at me like that. My intentions are pure.”

Bull laughs, “As driven snow, yeah, sure. You’re falling for him.”

“I’ll thank you not to psychoanalyze me,” says Dorian. He’s not sure who’s worse, Bull or Varric. He looks at the yogurt and watches Bull choose a few flavors he never used to like before he started dating this Trevelyan person. “He’s love shy and anxious but he’s a good person. I enjoy his company. It’s nice to have someone around who likes you for you.”

“I agree. But...be careful? I tried to leave you in better condition than I found you and we both know how well that turned out.”

Dorian scowls and looks away. Bull isn’t his last lover, not even close. Not the first, either. But he’s the only one who’s kept an eye on him, afterward. “I’ve grown up some since the last time we talked.”

“I wouldn’t know,” says Bull.

“Well, how would you? Busy touring with the Chargers, and whenever you’re in Orlais, you’re with this Trevelyan person.”

Bull turns and Dorian expects his voice to chop into him like a cleaver, but it doesn't. “Her name is Evelyn. If you want to meet her-”

“No. I said I’ve grown up, not become a martyr.”

They stand beside one another and Dorian can almost imagine it’s the old days, when they used to be friends, like when they used to fuck for fun. When Dorian was fine to keep things casual and used to let Bull do whatever he wanted with him. When he was the only one the Iron Bull of Par Vollen ever cared to be seen with.

“Just...don’t let me catch you falling back into old habits when this goes poorly.”

“When?”

“If.”

“There’s an important distinction there.”

“My apologies,” says Bull, and he bumps into Dorian as he lumbers towards the drink aisle. “Go have a nice dinner with Cullen. Give him a chance to surprise you.”

“That’s cryptic,” says Dorian.

Cullen drives them to his condo. He drives dutifully, stops completely at the line, indicates long before he changes lanes, and stays at or below the speed limit. Never once does Dorian get to hear the engine block of his sporty little hatchback purr. As he leans back in his seat and takes in the passing buildings, he pictures Cullen in the midst of a police chase, his dutiful diligence thrown to the wayside in favor of something a little more...theatrical. However, in the present moment, there's no perp in the back seat, only groceries, unrustled.

The bridge gives him a chance to look out at the water and spy fishing birds coasting in the wind and perched regally on buoys. The lake is immense, and there’s an island in the middle where they slip into the orange-dim light of a tunnel that burrows beneath a hundred luxurious residences. The radio station crackles until they emerge on the other side, and once they do, the metropolitan sprawl of Val Royeaux is long forgotten behind them. The eastside is made of marshy glades and rolling green hills where neighborhoods are etched out in an array of muted colors. There are some congested areas where the city has grown over the years, but it's mostly suburbs, and feel terribly alien to Dorian who has been a city person all his life. The only thing that could make him feel less at ease would be Cullen driving them into the actual woods, or into farmland, down a long gravel driveway. He does, however, drive into a parking stall underneath a nice condominium.

Dorian doesn’t recognize the name of the place, nor does he expect to. It’s no gated community with supercars lining the driveways, but it’s quaint, and the buildings seem to have a fresh coat of paint on them. There’s no one screaming out the window at their spurned lover and no rats running around in the hedges, which is already an improvement on Dorian’s living arrangements. They carry the bags together and walk below a balcony he greatly envies, how it overflows with greenery.

“Someone has a green thumb,” he says.

“Hm? Oh, that’s my neighbor. Velanna, I believe her name is. Rude as the day is long, but waters everyone’s plants and does the weeding in secret.”

“Hm.” It’s odd, but Dorian feels he can identify more with someone who keeps plants than someone who goes out traipsing around in them for fun. “What about you? Will I be surprised to find a near-dead houseplant in your condo?”

Cullen laughs softly. “I got rid of it last week.”

“Poor thing.”

They come to the second floor and Cullen unlocks the deadbolt. He shoulders open the door, which sticks just slightly, and Dorian peers in over him before stepping in.

Dorian’s chuffed. He expected...he wasn’t sure, but he thought the place would be a little natty. It isn’t that Cullen is an unclean man or even stingy, but he seems the sort to thrive in sparsity; nothing more than what is absolutely needed. Dorian had figured him for a man that overlooked luxury altogether. He imagined a fixer-upper, probably because he rather favored the idea of Cullen in a tool belt doing things with his hands.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.” Cullen holds two bags of groceries each on either arm and sets them on the floor in the kitchen. “I tried to clean up but it’s still a bit cluttered.”

It’s not that bad. The walls are a nondescript shade of beige and the floors are wood, but mostly covered with rugs. The entryway offers a view of a small, narrow kitchen and an equally small living room. There’s no dining area, just a bar and a work desk, and on the left there’s a tiny hallway leading to the restroom. He can’t see the bedroom from where he stands, but then remembers he’s holding bags when Cullen takes them from him to begin unloading.

“I’ll put these away, but uh, feel free to take a look around,” Cullen says, setting the last bags on what small counter space there is available. “Make yourself at home.”

He sounds a little nervous. A very strange thing considering Cullen had seemed all but comfortable with Dorian by now. He takes the opportunity to look at the photos hanging on the wall; Cullen as a young police recruit with his cohort on graduation from the academy. There are pictures of reminiscent faces, probably his siblings. One of them shows a young woman with the same blonde waves and gleaming smile as Cullen’s, with a baby on her hip.

“Is this Mia?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cullen says, and he’s bent in half putting groceries away in the refrigerator. “That’s Rosalie with her, my youngest sister.”

“A large age gap,” says Dorian, actually quite bewildered by it. “Or is this a very old photo?”

“It’s a little old.” Cullen straightens and his eyes move behind lowered lids, recollecting. “Rosie’s almost fifteen now, I think.”

More than a little, then. Dorian overlooks it. “It occurs to me that I don’t actually know your age.” He quirks a little smirk Cullen’s way, makes sure he sees it over the bar. “Pour me a glass of wine?”

He has to rummage about in a drawer in order to find a corkscrew and never does. “I can’t believe I did this. I could have swore that I had one…” The image of confusion and a touch of embarrassment are clear in how he holds his forehead, pushing back his hair, looking into the junk drawer as if he has only overlooked it, even after nearly upending it in a fruitless search.

Dorian isn’t concerned. “Surely a lad like yourself will have a screw or a nail lying about.”

“Hm?” Cullen looks up at him. He holds the wine bottle with a sullen expression, like the night might be ruined because of this minor drawback. “What for?”

Dorian cannot believe himself when he’s the one who has to demonstrate to Cullen how to sink a screw into the cork and use a hammer to wedge it out. It’s a humorous reversal. Cullen is the heterosexual male here, the one who should be useful for things like this, a man’s man with a solution at hand, scoffing at anyone who disbelieves him. Doesn’t need a map to get around, does home renovations for fun, that sort of thing.

The cork finally pops free and the sound is a mercy to Dorian’s ears. Cullen rewards him with a full pour.

It smells good. He has no idea how expensive it is, because Cullen did not let him pay for anything, promptly giving back his wallet when they reconvened at the checkout. And he wasn’t allowed to view the receipt, either. It’s older than any so-called “long-term relationship” Dorian has ever had, that’s clear enough by the depth and the complexity of the flavor as it washes over his tongue. Tart, dry, heavy, the first sip is like a dark orchard full of berries swollen on sunlight and rain. He studies the bottle. If Cullen picked this one out by the label alone, he’d be astounded. It seems like Josephine’s touch, here, because it’s exactly what he likes. And that makes him feel loved, in a mortifyingly adolescent way. Cullen regards Josie as a close friend, and he’s brought Dorian into that small realm as well by inviting her opinion, by asking for help. He can only imagine the exchange that must have happened at work or over the phone.

_What kind of wine do I buy for someone with expensive taste who never treats himself?_

_Who is it for? Is it for your handsome friend Dorian?_

He laughs into his glass at his own momentary daydream and almost asks Cullen if she might join them. Sweet woman, and someone he might like to get to know better. The wine helps him feel less tense, but he knows he’s in no state for company, is too tired on this one day during the year that he does not care to maintain a veneer of perfection, of an even temperament.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> symmetry here: happy holidays, merry christmas, etc. hope you enjoy this, the continuation of last week's chapter. thank you for all the comments, kudos, bookmarks.

“Is it any good?”

Dorian’s reply is nearly drowned in another gulp. “Very. But don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Cullen.

“Your age, smartass.”

Cullen uses the tail of his shirt to unscrew the top from a tall, skinny bottle of lager and it gives Dorian a peek at the very corner of his abs for the briefest second. “Twenty eight,” he says, with a hitch at the end as if he’s posing a question, as if Dorian might judge him for being old. “And you?”

“Who said this was quid pro quo? You don’t need to know my age, I’m the one setting _you_ up, not the other way around.”

Thankfully he doesn’t have to admit out loud that he’s the same age, as of today. Too bad, though. The Ferelden tradition of birthday spankings comes to mind. He prepares a reasonable age to give as a white lie and then almost hopes he does press for a real answer.

Cullen’s lips reveal a smile before they wrap around the mouth of his beer. “When do you want dinner?”

“Whenever.” His appetite is weak, but by the time it’s through he hopes to manage eating enough to make Cullen feel like the meal is appreciated. Like the whole thing, like Dorian himself, is worth his time. He wanders away with his glass of wine and spies a bookshelf, actually makes a piqued noise before going over to it. “Let’s see what we have here...” On one of the shelves there’s a stand that holds a silver badge. He studies it for a few beats, reads Cullen’s name, a number of some sort, and a rank. “You were a commander?”

Cullen is very silent and there’s no sound for a long time while he takes in the rest of the collection on the shelves. Mostly sci-fi and fantasy, some books on self-realization, martial arts, history. Dorian remembers that Cullen’s service ended early thanks to an injury. He curses himself for opening his mouth and goes back to the bar to see what damage he’s done. Cullen stands at the sink and drinks his beer, staring into the wall as if it holds some chilling secret.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up. On a day like this I should know better than to pour salt on old wounds.”

Cullen moves past whatever slight Dorian’s question causes and puts forth an effort to smile again. “You seem so averse to having a birthday. Is it because you don’t like getting older? You don’t look, um, a day over twenty...three?”

“Flatterer.” It’s an obvious reach, but appreciated. He pulls out one of the tall chairs and sits down. “It’s because of my family.” He withdraws his phone and sets it on the countertop. It hasn’t buzzed in a while, so he unlocks the screen and spins it around to show Cullen that he’s missed three calls and has five unread messages. “They don’t agree with my lifestyle. Nor I with theirs, to be honest. I left Tevinter and turned my back on my father for his reprehensible behavior, and they took it...well, like some sort of treason. Of the highest order. Every year they call and beg me to come home. Starts out diplomatic, but ends...less so.”

“You had a falling-out, I take it. Because…”

 _Yes, go on, put it together_ , Dorian thinks.

He watches as Cullen fumbles to finish his thought, the threads of hesitance working across his features and forming a tangle before he swallows his words down with a sip of his beer. All on Dorian, then.

“Having a homosexual son who refused to remain closeted was hampering my father’s political career. When I was a teenager, he…” Dorian realizes now that he doesn’t want to tell this story but it’s already come to a head, he can’t leave it untold, and the need to say it out loud is like a burn that screams out for a cooling salve. “He tried to send me to a reprogramming camp. I thought he was taking me to visit a school for the arts. When I found out what it really was, oh...” He places his hand on his cheek, remembering with some embarrassment how he acted, and how Cullen might interpret it, having once been a policeman. “I fought like hell to get away. He left me in the car to make some final arrangements and I just took off. I stole the car and ended up in Minrathous, where the authorities finally caught up with me. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face when she came to bail me out.”

Cullen is agog, mouth open, his beer hovering but forgotten. “I don’t know what to say.”

Dorian shrugs, he waves it off like an unpleasant smell, always does. His suffering is inconsequential, in his own mind. He’s only glad that Cullen isn’t angry that, while no charges were pressed, Dorian was a bit of a juvenile delinquent, but only for a good cause. The only cause: the right to survive.

“She set me up with a family friend there in Minrathous, where I later went to university. I dropped out after a while. Money dried up, and mother convinced me to come home. Father and I fought endlessly, and I had to leave again. Since I came to Orlais, we’ve played this game,” he emphasizes the word by peevishly flicking at his phone, making it spin on the glossy countertop. “Missing one another and then hating one another as soon as we re-establish contact. Pleading. Extortion. I stopped answering, but they still call. It’s like a ritual, now.”

“Dorian…”

“Ah ah ah. I don’t accept sympathy. As much as I love attention, I truly abhor being pitied. And there’s nothing to pity. I’m satisfied with how things have turned out.” He shrugs and makes to smile toothily, his wine glass just askew from his mouth. “If you dare cry, I’ll be forced to leave.” And go get a stiff drink elsewhere, and maybe something else stiff. But he doesn’t say that out loud.

He tries to play off his words like a big joke, but they feel clunky and harsh as they leave his mouth. Lying to himself is easy but Cullen has those eyes, like he can see right through all of Dorian’s subterfuge. His plumage, vibrant though it may be, does not distract him. Cullen lets out a tiny sigh, diverted from his intentions, whatever they were. Dorian takes a large swig of his wine, uncouth as he gulps it down in lieu of saying anything else. He can’t stand feeling like a failure and he doesn’t want Cullen’s second-hand embarrassment or shame on his conscience either.

“I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re here.” Cullen dwells on the sentiment, squeezing Dorian’s bicep quickly, and then goes about getting a pot and filling it with water to boil the pasta.

Dorian rubs absentmindedly with one hand where Cullen’s had just been. He realizes he’s trying to hold onto the sensation and stops himself. He’s relieved that the heartfelt moment has passed and the can clear the air by pretending it never happened. “Anything I can help with?”

The question is an afterthought and perhaps Cullen can tell he doesn't mean it. He shakes his head. "You’re my guest. Just sit and relax."

The sauce and a handful of fresh ingredients go into a pot to simmer while the pasta cooks, and Dorian directs him to add a few drops of olive oil and a dash of salt. Steam wafts up into his face and makes him glisten, and there’s a determined notch in his brow as he follows Dorian’s suggestions. After the pasta is drained, Cullen asks if it should be rinsed, and in return gets an earful of vehemence from Dorian for his trouble. Dorian balks so intensely that Cullen can only shake his head, shake the colander, and move on to the next task and hope to do better next time. He slices extra mushrooms and sautés them to perfection. They fill the room with a nutty, buttery aroma, and go into the sauce after Dorian eats some for quality assurance purposes.

He ends up with some hands-on involvement, putting garlic and butter on the bread and putting it in the oven to toast, and only because Cullen is tipsy and also very busy getting everything else ready. They sit down to eat side by side at the counter with paper towels on their laps, eating off of mismatched plates with mismatched silverware, a cobbled-together collection from the looks of it. The meal is simple but it hits all the right notes and there are no major missteps. Cullen cooks enough for a platoon but no one else shows up to join them, and for that Dorian is endlessly grateful. The wine flows, and flows, and with a full stomach and his nose in his glass, he hardly notices when Cullen takes his phone and turns it off as to prevent any further intrusions from his family. Normally having someone else touch his phone would put Dorian through the roof, but Cullen does it so naturally, and it’s not meant to be controlling, so… He lets it slide.

“I’m so relieved this went off without a hitch,” says Cullen.

There isn’t a scratch on him, and nothing has smoldered or caught fire even once. The bread is singed, maybe even a little charred on one end, because Cullen’s fancy convection oven cooks everything twice as fast as a normal oven, but it’s nothing the sauce can’t conceal. And the sauce is good, even if only semi-homemade.

“Are you sure you don’t want seconds?”

Cullen has gotten up and cleared their plates.

Dorian wipes his mouth on his napkin and gravely shakes his head. He hasn’t eaten so voraciously in quite a while. The meal is good, but there’s something more filling about it than just the food. The company is good, too. “I couldn’t stand to take another bite. Thank you for cooking. I’ll help with the dishes.”

“No worries,” says Cullen. With his back turned, Dorian admires the span of his shoulders, the subtle ways his muscles tense and bunch beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I owe you so much for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Hardly.” Dorian props his elbow on the counter and leans his chin into his fist. Cullen could do better to reward him. By actually sealing the deal on a second date, for instance. “You don’t really need my help at all. The only reason why women aren’t beating down your door this very moment is because you take your chivalry nonsense too damn seriously. I know it’s important to you, but courtly love hasn’t been in fashion for a few hundred years now.”

Cullen moves around the kitchen to tidy up and Dorian catches how his nose wrinkles. “It’s how I was raised. And even if it wasn’t, it’s something I believe, and it isn’t going to change any time soon.”

“Relax, commander,” says Dorian, and he smirks at Cullen in a way that makes the other man relax, knowing it’s a gentle rib and not an attack. Of course it’s how he was raised. “I like your manners. But they do get in the way of our goal at times. Sometimes you just need to,” he clenches his hand in a gesture of, what, machismo virility? “Go and get it.”

“It’s...well it’s cost-prohibitive, isn’t it? Going on so many dates will bankrupt me.”

Excuses, excuses. “Then just bring a girl home, for Maker’s sake!” Dorian regrets blurting that out, because of how Cullen’s face darkens. The wine is to blame there, or so he wishes to believe. “Sorry, sorry, we’ve been through this, I know you’re not like that.”

There’s a lull, and it makes Dorian feel guilty, and he hates feeling guilty, so he fills the space with noise.

“Be creative. You can take a girl outside for free,” he offers, trying to be helpful. “Go to one of the parks on Lake Celestine and feed the ducks.”

He loads the dishwasher while Dorian ticks off a number of completely sensible venues and when he’s done he wipes his hands on a rag and shakes his head with a grin. He seems to have let Dorian off the hook and all is well, because his smile is always genuine.

“See, that’s why I have you. I can’t do this on my own.”

“I rather think you’re not willing to take a risk.” Dorian finishes his wine and waits for Cullen to answer his challenge. “What is it you’re really looking for?”

Cullen thinks on it a while before he answers. “Mutual respect. I want to be with someone who has strength of character. Someone independent but who can still let down their guard.” He screws up his brows, thinking hard, and stares at the ceiling. “Affectionate and kind to animals is a must.”

Dorian nods along to every attribute. “Sounds fair. And incredibly general. More specifics?”

Cullen sighs and Dorian can tell he’s running out of energy for this line of questioning. “Smarts are nice, and...a good sense of humor. Someone, I don’t know...passionate. Esoteric.”

“No, no, you’ll end up with someone who’s too chatty and pretentious.” He blasts the suggestion without even thinking twice. He slides his wine glass forward and Cullen takes the hint, pours him another. “Besides, I’ve seen you turn down girls with everything on that list already.”

“They just weren’t the right one,” he shrugs. “When it’s right...I’ll know.”

The right one. That’s the difference between them. Cullen wants Ms. Right and Dorian has only ever wanted Mr. Right Now. Cullen joins him in another glass of wine and Dorian lets the topic drop. It’s been too good a night to let his lurking foul mood ruin Cullen’s efforts to cheer him up. They sit on the couch and watch television a while, and Dorian can’t help but sneak looks at ‘Commander’ Cullen from time to time.

He’s so casual and comfortable in his own home, his sock-clad feet propped up on the coffee table and his arms resting over the back of the couch, one of them dreadfully close to Dorian’s neck. He’s incorrigible. His laugh is embarrassing and selfless and makes Dorian’s chest feel tight. He blushes like a rosebush at the slightest provocation. He’s handsome and sweet and polite and lots of girls go nuts for those qualities, but he’s never interested. If Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d think the man were trapped deep inside a closet of homosexual denial. Is it because he puts women up on a pedestal? Are they too pure or too divine to be tainted by his dark, hidden temptations? Love shy, perhaps? Burned by a love gone awry as a younger man?

Cullen gets up to excuse himself, patting Dorian’s knee and telling him to “sit tight” as he passes. He emerges from his bedroom a moment later carrying a white box from Antivan Sweets.

“No.”

“Hate me all you like, but it’s chocolate.”

It’s a cake just big enough for two. It has the usual “Happy Birthday” scrawled across the top in dark chocolate cursive swirls and even though such a measure would normally pluck Dorian’s last nerve, it’s...nice, for once. Cullen is nothing if not nice. Respectable. He thinks birthdays are cause for celebration and he’s genuinely happy that Dorian is alive and there to share it with him. They eat out of the box until there are naught but crumbs left, and eventually Dorian yawns and finds he’s lost track of time.

“It’s late,” Cullen says.

“I should be off, then.” Dorian gets up. “I’ll just take the bus, I suppose. If you’re able to manage, then so can I. You may have to tell me where to-”

“You’re not going to spend the night?”

“I beg your pardon?” Cullen looks legitimately _sad_ and Dorian can’t believe he’s not joking. “You want me to…”

Cullen’s already prepared, there’s a small cabinet behind the couch and he produces a folded sheet and a blanket from inside the bundle. “I knew we were going to drink so I planned to just have you spend the night. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I...don’t know what to say.”

“Yes?”

“A-alright. You’re sure?” He’s lost. He doesn’t know how to handle this kind of kindness, doesn’t know how to express his gratitude. “Cullen…”

He rearranges the couch and covers it with a sheet while Dorian stands there in shocked silence. The man just fucking smiles and he’s so gorgeous Dorian just wants to kiss him. He’s so good and so perfect and...straight. He knows he’s got to stop this line of thought before it gets painful and so he just says “thank you” and Cullen doesn’t realize just how much this night means, not at all. Dorian’s parents are still jerks and he’s still only got half an education and few friends but...this makes it ok, for a little while. It’ll be easier to face it all tomorrow.

The couch is comfortable, and he has to reiterate it to Cullen several times before the man finally leaves him alone. He listens for Cullen’s bedroom door to close and then undresses, setting his shoes aside with socks tucked into them, jeans folded and shirt stacked on top. He leaves them nearby so they can be found in a hurry. It’s a habit. He’s lost too many clothes dashing out in the morning after a one night stand, trying to avoid the talk of shame at the coffee maker. He’s made himself an expert at extricating himself from whatever arms and legs he’d been entangled in before their owner(s) woke up. It’s a fruitless gesture tonight but it seems polite not to just leave his shit lying around Cullen’s pristine living room. It feels awful, all of a sudden, standing in his unders, being looked at by the pictures of Cullen’s family on the walls. Cullen’s door opens again and he jumps into place on the couch, whips the covers up over his waist.

“Need anything?”

Dorian shakes his head. “It’s fine. Unless you feel a strong need to kiss my forehead and tuck me in.”

“Is that your birthday wish?” Cullen grins rakishly, peeking from around the corner.

One can dream.

“You should save it for your Sleeping Beauty when you find her,” Dorian tosses right back, laying down under the pretense of getting comfortable. In truth, he can’t handle Cullen being the last thing he sees before closing his eyes.

“Good night, Dorian.”

Dorian only mumbles the same, and he lies there a while. He wishes he could leave the television on, if only to give him something to fill the silence of someone else’s home, of Cullen’s hiding place, of the sounds of him settling down in the other room. He blinks his eyes, staring blankly at the wall, convinced he’ll never get to sleep at this rate.

The next thing he feels is a slow burn. It’s a kiss that sucks the air out of his lungs and leaves him whimpering for more. The grip on his wrists is hard enough to bruise, the force of a single hand pinning them above his head while the other trails down his chest, teasing in its intent. Every delicate touch somehow feels like too much, like liquid fire shot straight through his veins, and it leaves him gasping, hips bucking, seeking any kind of frantic release.

He doesn’t see the man’s face. He doesn’t need to.

He just knows.

And oh, does it only make the ache of anticipation all the more poignant. The man’s name is on his breath but he never commits to saying it because there are lips against his skin, making him gasp. His tongue chases after every kiss, lapping at the sweat that beads in the divots of his collar bone, teeth nipping, and the cock rutting against his hip is thick and warm. He aches for it to fill him.

He’s got the distinct impression he’s being used, but it’s a glorious feeling of utility. He’s forgotten how much he loves this. He wants to share, to stoke the fire with his own enthusiasm, but whenever he tries to move, his arms are weak and the hand is heavier, holding him down.

He feels a stubbled cheek rasping against his own, and he leans into it, feels the mouth on his ear. Hands drag down his chest, rubbing a thumb over the peak of his nipple before moving further, lower, but never touching where it aches the most. Dorian feels hot, feverish almost, lost in a haze of lust he hasn’t indulged in for quite some time.

The pressure of restraint is gone and the moment he gains command of his arms, he reaches up through the murk to thread his fingers into soft, loose curls. He feels the pad of the man’s thumb drag over his lower lip. It slips inside his mouth. Here, he shows his appreciation, sucks and licks and lightly bites until the other man’s body moves to cover him entirely. His cock is trapped between them, slick and heavy against his own belly as they slide against one another. There’s the distinct impression of a hand wrapping itself around them both, tugging _just so_ in the way Dorian loves best, and rather than hear it, he feels the moan reverberate in his chest. His back arcs up, pushing them ever closer.

It still isn’t enough.

Head swimming, he takes hold of what skin and muscle he can, searches blindly for a mouth to kiss. His cock is aching and no matter how much he thrusts, the friction is never quite enough to take him over the edge. Dorian whines and struggles for just a little more, feels tangled and snagged, still seeking, breathing hard and hoping he’ll be kissed again, kissed into oblivion.

Frustration can be delectable, but for only so long. He has a short fuse and he’s not so passive as to let the other man tease him forever. He moans out his name in hopes that it will get him what he wants.

“Cullen!” Suddenly, there’s light, and Dorian squints up from an unfamiliar bed. His legs are twisted up in the sheet and he sits upright, trying to orient himself, enrobed in the syrupy slow ascension from sleep. “Hm?”

He looks about and sees a light from the hallway, the bathroom door open and Cullen standing there, shirtless, rubbing his eyes. The pajama pants he wears are hideous. Plaidweave. They’re monstrously ugly. And yet he can expect no less. He quickly turns off the light and it makes Dorian blink even harder.

“Sorry, did the light wake you?” Cullen’s voice is gravelly with sleep. “I nearly forgot you were here.”

A twinge in his groin alerts him to his unfortunately rock-hard erection. Dorian groans and is very thankful for how the back of the couch maintains his dignity. He presses down on the tent in his drawers and lies back down, facing away. Cullen’s got a hairier chest than he expected, but the physique isn’t far off. The way his pajamas fit low on his hips reveal a muscled girdle and, if his bleary eyes hadn’t mistaken it for a trick of the light, a handful of scars. Appendicitis, perhaps?

“Just startled, that’s all,” Dorian hurries to say before Cullen decides to step any closer. “Don’t mind me.”

He tucks the blankets around him to try and give a semblance of propriety, so that if Cullen walks into the living room he won’t notice anything untoward happening on his couch. He closes his eyes. There’s a pause of silence, as if Cullen might saying something more, but the last he hears of this atrocious situation are footsteps padding away across the wooden floor and the conscientiously quiet click of a door.

Dorian waits a beat before shifting. He readjusts himself with an indignant frustration aimed at many different emotions he’d _certainly_ not like to think of right now, here on Cullen’s couch. He thinks about trying to smother himself with his pillow, but the stupid thing is too soft as he slams his head back down, settling in for a fitful night of restlessness.

There’s the sound of a siren in the distance and it pierces Dorian’s ears with its shrill cry of impending disaster. He mutters for the damn thing to shut up, and it does after a minute, but the noise inside his head refuses to quiet.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, cloveoil here! Just wanna start off with wishing you all a happy new year, and thank you so much for your continued support with this fic! It really means the world <3 Here's a brand new chapter for a brand new year ;)

On the long list of virtues that Dorian lacks, he knows that patience is definitely one of them. He has always been the sort to tap his foot, to fidget when his needs aren’t met, and to rapidly cycle among a limited number of interests.

This is what perplexes him about this situation with Cullen.

He’s gone beyond impatience. He’s seen his limits and decided, beyond reason, to surpass them. And he’s not angry about it at all. Not as much as he should be.

There’s a split between his consciousness on the matter. On the one hand, he’s fed up with himself. On the other, he’s pleased to see that he’s staying committed. Each passing day the rift grows and shifts, too tenuous to discern which is the more cogent. Shall he cut his losses and begin calling this tirade what it really is? Or shall he soldier on, in the manner Cullen would, and continue to live in the mental, emotional equivalent of shark-infested waters?

The sensible part of him, a part of himself that he takes pride in, the part of Dorian that does not condone having _sex_ _dreams on_ _friend’s couches,_ is growing anxious. It finds Cullen’s oddly virginal reticence wholly frustrating on a level that is par with standing in line at the DMV. This logical voice rests in the back of his mind and reminds him that they've both grown too attached, too comfortable. Perhaps he’s become a safe point, an anchor.

He just wishes anchors didn’t need to sink.

The other part, the part that is sufficiently wooed by simple gestures of affection, of pasta and chocolate cake and chivalry, is reveling in all the attention. It stares starry-eyed at no longer just the abstract idea of Cullen, but Cullen himself. It’s watched as Cullen has moved from a concept to an actual person, someone who prefers to squirt ketchup on his fries rather than on the side; someone who owns at least half of the city’s plaid shirts in his wardrobe; someone who _squeals_ when you brush fingers over his ticklish sides even by accident. Even the way he gets indignant afterwards is lovable.

Needless to say, it all makes for a very confused Dorian—especially in the days following his birthday. The memory of that night still lingers, lurching his stomach whenever he indulges in it just a little too much.

Fueled by this internal minefield, Dorian has dragged Cullen to where they sit currently. At this impasse. If Dorian lacks patience on a natural level, then Cullen is naturally gifted at testing him. He’s an ox, he sits heavy in the passenger seat and actually grips the dashboard like he’s going to be manually ejected if he lets go. Dorian can tell by the skeptical look in Cullen’s eyes that this destination is really pushing him, like stretching a rubber band and waiting for it to snap, but Cullen never has. Not yet.

But this might be it.

Dorian is impishly amused by that prospect.

They’re in Dorian’s car, and he’s ready to go, but Cullen’s bolted to the seat.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “This is ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Dorian agrees, “but things are getting desperate. You’re not interested in the girls we meet at clubs or cafes, so I thought this might be a good change of pace.”

"The neighborhood skating rink." Cullen’s arms are crossed and he’s looking through the windshield at the building with an expression he’d try to sell as a scowl but to Dorian it only looks like a pout. He sees a flicker of a younger Cullen, unrelenting as Mia bests him at yet another round of chess.

“What? The girls here don’t meet your standards either?”

“That depends. Have they graduated high school yet?”

Dorian has had a bad influence on him; he’s getting too smarmy. He tries so hard not to crack a smile. “Stop that. It’s twenty-one and over tonight.”

“So there’ll be people on skates, drinking.” His sigh is so heavy it might just crush the both of them before they get in there.

“Yes, and we will be two of them. Let’s go.” Dorian gets out and then leans down to look at Cullen who’s still firmly stuck in his bubble. “Or are you scared? Afraid to fall on your arse?”

Cullen is stubborn enough to stand his ground but he’s also competitive, a trait Dorian knows how to exploit because it’s one he shares. There’s real consideration into the idea, but Cullen can only see the hideous exterior of the building.  It’s something physical to take his mind off of making small talk. Music thrums from the inside and it’s got the same energy of a dance club, but without the sexual undercurrent that so often clams the man up like the doors on a confessional. Cullen relents, but Dorian sees the way Cullen drags his feet across the parking lot. Dorian only smirks and strolls pleasantly beside him, hands in pockets. A victory is still a victory.

Inside there’s a faint smell unique to old buildings, and a hint of disinfectant, but the line almost reaches the door. There’s disco music playing and Dorian’s actually thrilled to be there. He hasn’t gone skating in years. The group ahead of them is decked out in costumes, a buxom Rivaini woman with a high ponytail and a tiny pair of shorts, a blond Antivan man (with a gorgeous ass, who’s carrying his own pair of flamboyant, personalized skates,) and a tattooed fellow, grumpy, who’s being used as an armrest for a taller bloke with a dark beard and a rakish smile.

“I brought you an extra pair of socks,” he says, handing them over while they stand in line. “So you don’t get blisters.”

“Uh, thanks?” Cullen replies, looking over the bundle.

“Sorry they’re not plaidweave,” Dorian can’t help but tease.

“Oh shut up,” he says, nudging Dorian a bit with a roll of his eyes. “Thanks,” he tacks on after a moment, bumping shoulders with Dorian more gently this time.

His eyes are soft as he looks at him, pulling one of those full smiles reserved solely for friends that has slowly eroded the solid walls around Dorian’s heart without him realizing. It’s a world of difference compared to the Cullen-Standard Polite Smiles he hands out like business cards to every pretty girl he brushes past as of late.

Thankfully a spectacular collision a few feet away saves him from having to come up with a reply, and he lets the conversation lull into an easy silence as they wait. Dorian whistles and raises his brows at Cullen.

"Don't worry. I'll catch you, I promise."

But who will catch him? The fall is on Dorian's mind more and more these days.

Two sets of quads and a bit of moaning later, and Dorian is effortlessly gliding over the carpet while Cullen is still trying to lace up. Assaulted by a barrage of neon colors and black lights, lasers, and mirror balls, Dorian hasn’t felt so at home since he left the bohemian district in Qarinus. He’s ready to go, to join the fray of people swirling around the rink, but he can tell Cullen is either struggling or dragging behind on purpose.

Dorian reels over to where Cullen is sitting on a bench, re-lacing his boots for the second time. He drops down on one knee dangerously close to sitting right between Cullen’s legs and gently takes the job away before Cullen ties himself in knots.

“Dorian—"

He cuts Cullen off wordlessly and adjusts the tightness, cinches him up, and wraps the extra length around the ankle before topping it all off with a bow. He pulls Cullen’s cuffs down and doesn’t dare look up at him. Once Cullen’s standing, unsteadily at best, Dorian waits for a group of women to skate past them and pokes Cullen in the ribs with his elbow.

“Come on, let’s get out there.”

As it turns out, Cullen can, in fact, skate, but it takes him a few laps. Getting from the raised ledge down into the rink takes a bit of encouragement, like nudging a dog into a crate, and Cullen holds Dorian’s hand (wrist, really, but it’s close enough,) while they merge with the flow. Dorian lets go of Cullen for a brief moment before they’ve finished their first lap, but the man falters and he quickly reaches for Dorian this time. He holds on a few beats longer than seem strictly necessary.

There’s a good twenty or so people going around in steady circles, and the group from before are in the center, doing tricks, dancing, jamming, and trying to one-up each other. Dorian wants to show off too, but he keeps his eye on Cullen, watches for him to stumble. He darts out to steady him a few times, his hand on Cullen’s arm, then his waist, and the feel of muscles and the heat of him has Dorian wishing for just a little more reason to linger. But he keeps his hands to himself, mostly, and after a while Cullen’s got the hang of it. He’s sheepish and tells Dorian he hasn’t skated in years but the words are empty. Dorian doesn’t care how foolish he looks or how out of practice he is. He’s fucking adorable is what he is.

It deflates him to realize that as long as he’s there trying to hold Cullen’s hand, no girl is going to get anywhere near him. As soon as Cullen looks confident, Dorian skates up a little and stylishly turns around, skating backwards with an exaggerated shimmy.

"Seems like you're an old pro at this."

"You haven't seen anything yet. Felix and I used to cut class and skate for hours back in Tevinter."

"And did you ever have any luck at finding a date?"

Dorian twirls and skates in an arc around his partner. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think you should watch where you're going," he chuckles, and Dorian veers out of the way at the last second, nearly clipping someone as they amble by.

He has a few more tricks up his sleeve and he’s wanton in their execution; crossover turns, tight spins on the heels of his skates, pivots, and a thrilling hockey-stop that has Cullen shaking his head in disbelief. The crowd of skaters in the middle are looking, that’s for sure.

They've caught the attention of a number of women now, too. But Cullen is wholly focused on him, as usual. He likes it but he knows it isn't helping anything but his own ego. It's selfish to hoard Cullen all to himself and he knows it. He can hang around in Cullen's orbit or he can go out and impress one of the boys in the center. Cullen is going to find a girl one of these days and he needs to think of himself and the lonely nights he can predict heading his way. No one is going to approach either of them at this rate, and so with chagrin, he peels himself from Cullen's side.

“I’m going to get out of your way now,” he says, and his smile is generous because he’s not really feeling it. “Think you can handle yourself for a while?” He has to shout a little over the music.  

Cullen nods, but he glances around and nervously lets a pretty woman skate past him. Her eyes trail over him as she powers by. “Um. All right.”

“I won’t go far,” says Dorian. “There’s nowhere to go but in a circle. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

He winks and the music carries him, and he speeds up, changes directions and drops into the turn. The burn in his thighs feels better than the slow ripping in his chest like wet newspaper. Before he can start moping he sees a familiar face. It's Lavellan. He digs in and sprints up behind her.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Oh!" She laughs and nearly falls over herself. "Dorian, what are you doing here?"

"I'm known to go out and have fun from time to time. Cullen is here." He points him out, skating slowly and purposefully on the other side of the rink, unhurried, with his hands in his pockets.

He’s skating just fine now, so long as he stays at a consistent rate of speed, but he’s trapped behind a group of unstable-looking lushes. He can either slow down, make room for them to fall so he can dodge the collision, or he can be gutsy and try to pass them, hell on wheels. Cullen sees Dorian watching him and pulls a face, underlining his frustration.

Lavellan quietly regards the blond too and suggests they linger at the barrier off to the side and let him catch up. When he does, Lavellan doesn’t give Dorian a chance to make the introduction. They merge alongside him.

"Hi. I'm Ellana, I work with Dorian at Haven." She extends her hand and Cullen takes it, only to lose his balance, and Lavellan grabs him to stop his scrambling.

Dorian watches this unfold and by the end of it Cullen and Lavellan are standing across from one another, and he looks deeply down into the woman's eyes. Dorian notes with a pang of jealousy how the trashy pop music could easily be replaced with a lilting romantic suite for how intensely she smiles up at the much taller man. They look like the cover of a smutty novel, she an elven damsel and he a broad-chested bodice-ripper.

Wouldn't that be something. It’d almost be believable if Cullen hasn’t completely fallen victim to his own nerves. He stutters out his name and tells Lavellan how many good things Dorian has said about her. She thankfully doesn’t mention how much Dorian has told her about their adventures, how many times they’ve laughed at his expense. All in good fun, of course.

It's not long after that Lavellan waves someone over. A bright blond head of choppy hair swishes as it speeds over, skidding to a halt before him, giggling manically in a way that _almost_ strikes terror into Dorian’s heart.

“Look who I found, Sera,” Lavellan says. Dorian notices how she nods at both of them, but only her eyes rake over Cullen.

“Oh. Fancy pants,” she says, smacking a big glob of bright pink bubble gum. She looks Cullen up and down, but it’s less _Hot Damn_ and more _Who Cares?_ “And Prince Charming, too. You two on a date, then?”

Cullen laughs and Dorian quells the urge hip check Sera into the barrier. "Very funny." He gives her a dirty look and Sera just winks at him.

They move towards the front of their small group while Cullen and Lavellan seem to linger behind, a murmur of something passing between the pair before Dorian hears Lavellan’s musical laugh just barely over the noise of the rink.

Dorian pretends to pull a move and turns around, moving backwards down the straightaway. Sera snorts because she thinks he's trying to best her, and she copies him. The two of them get an eyeful of Cullen bashfully looking at his feet. Lavellan's arm is twined around his elbow. If they hold hands, Dorian fears he may faint. The bar is suddenly calling his name and so he unceremoniously books it for the cutout. He hears Sera call him a ponce but the promise of alcohol is more fetching than defending himself.

He takes two shots and chases them with a tiny, overpriced plastic cup of imported beer, barely a swallow by his ideals. Sera rolls by on the other side of the barrier and sticks her tongue out at him, her ears low and pinned back, almost like a cat’s. He does her the same courtesy, plus interest. She joins him a minute later, careening into the seating area at breakneck speed. The table shakes when she slams into it and throws herself down next to him. Her shoelaces are barely tied, but she hasn’t plowed into anyone or taken a dive yet. She orders the questionable nachos and cheese and a beer and curses up and down at the cost, to which Dorian says “I know,” with much commiseration. She hands over a fistful of crumpled bills and when her food arrives in a little paper tray, she shrieks in delight.

“Love this stuff,” she says. The ‘nachos’ and ‘cheese’ look terrible and she digs right in, licking yellow goop off her thumb. “Want some?”

Dorian regrets to inform her that he must refrain.

“So what’s your problem, then?”

“What are you on about?”

“Cully-wully has got your knickers in a twist,” she says. “You’re jealous.”

Dorian reaches for his cup and finds he’s already emptied it. Lavellan has Cullen skating backwards now, her hands on his hips, guiding him. The two of them wave as the go by and Sera snort-laughs unselfconsciously at them. He feels his nose twitch and his heart threatening to jump out his throat. He bites the inside of his lip.

But they do make a fine couple.

Could be worse.

“Quit being a tit,” she says. “You’ll just hurt Lavellan’s feelings and if you do that I’ll kick your arse.”

He is being a tit. “You think they make a good couple?”

“Still think he’s a right loser,” she shrugs. “She can do better.”

“Better than _Cullen_?”

Dorian can’t believe he said that. Of course she can do better. Cullen cries into his fantasy novels and falls on the mercy of gay men in dark parking lots. He says he’s sorry too much and he always means it. He buys tickets to modern art exhibitions and can’t remember the difference between merlot and pinot noir no matter how many times he’s reminded. His favorite boots look like they’ve been chewed on by a dog!

He’s his best friend. When did _that_ happen? Ludicrous.

He clenches his fist to stop from bringing his hand over his mouth like some scandalized maiden, realizing he truly has hit rock bottom. He clears his throat loudly.

“Sounds like you’re in some deep shit.” A glob of nacho cheese drops onto her chin.

He reluctantly stares at her, lip curling. She’s a wreck but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He thinks of stealing a tortilla chip of out of the mass that hasn’t been touched by that awful, plastic-looking cheese. He’s not certain if the abomination disguising itself as actual food is what makes him more nauseous or if it’s the sight of Cullen throwing his head back in an open laugh across the rink as he and Lavellan trolley around, blithely indulging in a round of the chicken dance. While Sera drags a napkin over her face, he reaches for her beer and openly takes a sip.

“Oi!” She grabs it back and he’s already nearly pulled a muscle for the grimace it causes. “Now it’s all backwash!”

“Oh that is awful,” he says. “What did you order?”

She drinks anyway. “I dunno, Marchers Blue Ribbon? Mates ‘n me call it Kirkwall Water.”

“Foul.”

“You really like him, don’t you?” She crams another mouthful of the nachos down her gullet.

Dorian doesn’t answer.

“You fuckin’ do. Totally in love. Why don’t you just tell him?”

“He’s straight.” It comes out flat, the universal, eternal OM of his life. It represents everything he thinks and feels and hopes, compressed into two words.

Sera, mercifully, cannot reply with the last of the nachos in her mouth. He doesn’t want to hear how mean she can get, and so they gather their trash and pile it into the paper container that’s still greasy with ancient fake cheese. He checks his skates before heading back into the fray, tucks away the loose ends. Once he’s moving he feels his drinks sloshing in his stomach and has to compensate for being a little drunk. Good, then, that he got all the slick moves out of the way early, because now he’s ready to just settle in and let the music and the feel of cool air rushing past his face soothe him. He wants to try to salvage his evening, enjoying rare time spent with such good friends.

Back on the rink, they're still chatting and Lavellan's face lights up when he returns seamlessly into the group. He listens for context and keeps one ear out for the song he requested at the DJ booth.

"Y-you really did that?" Cullen's voice is full of wonder. "You're very brave."

Lavellan shrugs it off. "It's hardly heroic to stand up to a bully when your back is against a wall."

They are, of course, talking about an incident at Haven with a very rude customer. Lavellan is the one to which everyone goes when the situation turns nasty. She’s quite the woman. If he weren’t so invested in cock, she’d be high on his list for potential girlfriends. Lavellan is one of many siblings in an extended family, has more in common with Cullen that way. They talk about the perils of being a middle child and Sera grows impatient, veers off to jam with the sexpot Rivaini woman in the middle of the rink. The music changes tempo and shifts down, and the lights follow. It isn’t the song Dorian wanted at all. The DJ comes over the house speakers and informs all the singles to make room for the lovebirds. Couples-only. Sera makes a retching sound and makes a beeline for the big game hunt arcade shooter in the corner, still in her skates.

Dorian feels a small, cold hand slide down his forearm. Lavellan intertwines her fingers with his.

“Skate with me?”

“Oh? You don’t want to—”

She shakes her head plaintively. “You don’t mind, do you Cullen?”

“N-no. I’ll just, um,” Cullen is bright red and he’s so quick to go, he probably knows it. “I’ll go.”

There’s a little bit of something like disappointment in Cullen’s voice and Dorian cannot unhear it. He takes his leave and carefully slows, exits the rink gingerly, finds a seat as soon as possible and looks pensively at his feet.

“He’s nice,” she says.

“That he is.” Amongst other things. He wonders if she’s going to ask...

“No luck yet finding true love?”

Dorian shakes his head and turns her so that she’s in front, spins her around. She’s lightweight and easy to twirl. “He’s...willful.”

“What about you?”

“I’m sorry? What _about_ me?”

She gives him an incredulous look and pinches his arm. “You two are cute. You’re sure he isn’t bi?”

The thought resounds that Cullen has never definitively said so. “First off, _ouch_! Second, I’m not sure, no. But it’s apparent to me that our friendship is more important.”

“Spoken by a true bullshitter,” she said, nodding sarcastically.

He swings her out to shut her up and she breaks into an intoxicating laugh. He’s feeling softer, too, and when the song ends, she draws him into a hug. The four of them start to pack it in after Dorian’s song finally plays, and then as they’re leaving they rush back to the floor to let Sera and Dorian settle a beef during speed skate. They drag themselves out into the parking lot griping and whining and it’s never clear who really won. They’re jabbering and all bad blood is forgiven for the time being, taking a good ten minutes to make it to their cars. To Dorian’s great relief, Lavellan waves goodbye once she reaches the passenger side of Sera’s shitty little convertible and does not give Cullen her number. Sera, though, she gooses him, and he makes a hilarious sound that has Dorian folding forward over his knees, crying onto the asphalt.

The girls drive off, and loud, raspy punk music buffets out their open windows.

“You like Lavellan?” He hates how abrupt it sounds, and smooths it down, “She’s a sweet girl.”

He wants to mention it's too bad he didn't get to couples skate with her like he wanted to. But the words are too sharp and he's too feeble to bring it up.

Cullen nods absently and Dorian realizes he’s looking off at the other end of the parking lot. There’s a strip mall and it’s mostly dark, the shops closed for the night, but there’s still a late night convenience store open. There’s someone loitering on the corner and Cullen is squinting in that direction.

“What is it?”

“Probably nothing.” Cullen’s expression shifts from discomfort to the most appallingly fake look of reassurance he’s seen in an age. “I had a great time.”

Dorian wonders if the shadowed form over there has triggered some old police instinct of his. He decides to get them out of there. He tosses Cullen his keys from across the roof of the car.

“You drive.”

“Really?” Cullen catches them with surprising ease, and it reminds Dorian that the man isn’t all fumbling and awkwardness all of the time.

Dorian shrugs, moving over towards the passenger side where Cullen holds open the door for him. “I drank a bit, best to be safe.”

The excuse is flimsy albeit true, but Cullen The Cop only nods in agreement and closes Dorian’s door for him once he is safely inside. As Cullen walks around to the driver’s side, Dorian sees that his attention is pulled once more towards the convenience store, and he follows the gaze with lazy interest. Nothing. Whoever had been loitering before seems to have disappeared into the night.

“You’re sure everything’s alright?” Dorian asks when Cullen slides in. The engine whinnies a bit before Cullen gets it to turn over, and then the car starts with a lively growl that rumbles beneath them.

“Just paranoid, I guess,” he shrugs and reaches his arm across the center of the car to rest on the seat just a centimeter from Dorian’s shoulder. He leans around to look through the rear window and backs out carefully, taking his time getting accustomed to Dorian’s car.

Dorian can smell his cologne, deodorant, laundry detergent, skin. He pulls away to disembark and get them back home. Dorian drops his head back, closes his eyes to seal the smell like an envelope in his mind, along with memories, like a keepsake.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! cloveoil here. Hope your New Year has been a good one so far, and thanks for sticking with symmetry and I! We've got about 5 more chapters planned, so plenty of material still :) Your support and feedback means the world!

First there was the arboretum, and now a slough. Before Dorian met Cullen he didn’t even know what the fuck a slough was, much less want to visit one. Even the word itself sounds unpleasant, sort of like the mix between sewage runoff and something you’d find in the back of your foreign grandmother’s refrigerator six months past date. Dorian makes a point of telling Cullen all this word for word, but the stubborn man only counters with a mention of blueberry picking. As if the promise of a treat will suddenly quell Dorian’s ongoing catfight with Nature. Dorian’s skin crawls as they step out of the car, but turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?

“You’re the one who suggested a change of pace,” says Cullen.

Dorian impishly mimics Cullen like an intolerable three year old and gets an eye-roll in. “I suppose there will be people here who are...more your type?”

"I’m tired of hunting for a date,” he groans.

He moves around towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, rummaging past empty delivery boxes to retrieve a small, dark backpack he slings over his shoulders.

“How can you be tired? You hardly put any effort into it,” Dorian says once Cullen closes the trunk.

Cullen is a champ and he rolls with the punches. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, hang out together? Can I spend a day not thinking about how much I embarrass myself in front of women? Surely you could use a break too.”

Dorian briefly wonders just how self-conscious Cullen really is. He feels a little sorry for having steamrolled Cullen into the whole scheme in the first place. It has been difficult watching Cullen struggle, and equally irritating, and distracting. Looking back on things, it all seems very hare-brained, like the plot of a terrible movie, but they’re friends now, and it’s better this way. Dorian’s interference has gotten them this far, he doesn’t plan on stopping. If Cullen needs a little respite, he’s earned one.

“Fine, but I’m still complaining about the whole wilderness thing.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Cullen says, raising a hand to squeeze Dorian’s shoulder. “But just... give it a shot, yeah? You’ll like it more than you think. Trust me.” As if Dorian doesn’t already trust Cullen. The man is one of the few who know the truth of Dorian’s past, his birthday, his inner life. And here he is, still asking Dorian to trust him like they haven’t spent the better part of the last three months together.

“So demanding. I’ll try to keep my complaining to a minimum,” Dorian says, and Cullen cracks a smile. “Just for you.” Always just for him.

“Great, let’s get started then.”

They trek out of the parking lot and down a sloped trail surrounded by lush, unkempt foliage. The blueberry farm lies in distinct rows behind a fence, and they only have to pay a small fee for parking and entry at the stall where fresh fruits from the region are heaped in piles under handwritten signs. Dorian lets Cullen set the pace because Maker knows he doesn’t know how to begin. They stalk down the rows of blueberry bushes (or are they trees?) and Dorian gets a chance to admire the other man from afar. He’s wearing baggy shorts and a threadbare tee, stretched out at the collar and the print on the front worn beyond recognition. He takes his time scouting for the best place to start and Dorian meanders along behind him, feeling damp in the muggy heat of what Cullen has told him is, essentially, a swamp. Cullen drops to one knee and plops his backpack on the ground, digging a clump of balled-up grocery bags out of the bottom to offer one to Dorian who only stares at it.

“You put your blueberries in them.”

“I _know_ ,” Dorian balks, almost offended that Cullen could think him so incompetent until he sees that infuriatingly attractive smirk of his.

He snatches the bag with an exaggerated frown and stalks around towards the other side of the bush so his ego doesn’t have to suffer anymore ribbing. He stares down the bush littered with ripe berries before peering over it to watch Cullen contentedly toiling away already.

How could such a time-consuming and meticulous task be considered _relaxing?_

The bush they set to work on is hardy, and Dorian can just barely see Cullen from the other side of it, for how its leaves strain upwards between them. The branches are bursting with blueberries, fat and dark, and Dorian tries to pick them in small handfuls at a time. Every now and then he comes across a particularly juicy one and pops it in his mouth.

“You’ve eaten more than you’ve picked,” says Cullen as Dorian’s hand freezes, fingers poised perfectly around a plump berry.

Dorian sniffs. “Keep your eyes to yourself.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Dorian lobs the blueberry over the bush at Cullen, biting down a smile when he hears a small noise of confusion.

“Did you just throw a blueberry at me?” he asks, his voice hilariously shrill.

“No, it must’ve been a wild bird taking a large shit on you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Cullen chides, but Dorian can hear the grin in his voice.

They (literally) pick their way down the row and Cullen’s first bag is nearly full already, whereas Dorian’s is only at about half thanks to incremental snacking and dawdling. He enjoys spending time with Cullen, but he’s so easily bored, there’s no point in trying to force it. He takes a break (several) to stand and people-watch. There are a few others toiling along in the sun, easy camaraderie apparent between the older couples and young families. He watches as a young woman pecks who he assumes to be her girlfriend on the cheek, the pair giggling secretly between themselves, oblivious to the world. He can’t help but smile, oddly proud that they can show affection to one another in public. Blessedly, none of the nearby families give them a dirty look or even seem to care.

He casts a glance back at Cullen who’s deeply in tune with his blueberry harvesting. If things had been different, he’d have a mind to scoot around to the other side of the bush and give Cullen the same favor, maybe a little more, if they can find a shady place to sit and neck a while.

Startled by the intrusive thought, Dorian puffs out a little sigh and wanders off to get some air that doesn’t have Cullen standing in the middle of it. Cullen hardly notices him walking off the field and onto a path that leads further into the wetlands. It’s a wooden boardwalk, bordered on either side by scrubby bushes and cattails. He walks a bit down the way, somehow all at once overwhelmed yet admiring of the quiet nature around him. It’s a foreign feeling he’s never once thought to consider, something he’d never have experienced if it weren’t for Cullen ‘Nature Boy’ Rutherford dragging him along. He dares think he might almost be at peace.

Just down the path he sees a dog off its leash and sitting politely, tail wagging. Some yards behind a bend where Dorian cannot see her fully, a jogger is stopped, tying her shoe. They make eye contact and he realizes with some relief that the animal belongs to her. It’s a fluffy mess of golden fur and curls, has its tail going a mile a minute and couldn’t look more pleased to see Dorian approaching. The owner is a sharp-looking woman, tall and muscular, with cheekbones and jaw that remind one of glaciers cleaving ice down into bone-chilling waters. The little dog is damnably cute and eager and looks absolutely nothing like her.

“Cute dog,” he says, grinning down at the furry beast.

He’s not sure when he suddenly picked up a fondness for the slobbering things, but this one is very charming, wiggling with anticipation as he approaches. The jogger catches up, dripping with sweat but standing strong still—almost like she’s enjoying herself. A true masochist, to be out in the heat like this.

“Thank you,” she says. Her noticeable Nevarran accent is gruff but she’s obviously used to the attention this dog gets. “You can pet him if you’d like.”

Dorian hadn’t thought of asking for permission, but he’s glad to have it. He kneels, offering his hand, and when the dog licks him, he flattens his palm over the dog’s head, ruffles its ears. Its mouth hangs open, panting, and turns into the touch, shaking with how hard its tail is wagging. Dorian scratches behind the ears and then under the chin. The dog headbutts his knee as soon as he withdraws his hand, demanding rather adorably for more attention.

They exchange some more words, remarking on the odd weather in Cumberland, where he’s visited briefly in the past, and about the dog, who is her husband’s, and in the meantime Cullen walks over. It’s clear he’s been watching the whole thing unfold because he doesn’t chastise Dorian for abandoning him. Cullen had probably been talking to himself the whole time, not realizing Dorian had skipped away.

The jogger and her little friend take their leave with a polite nod as Cullen approaches. When the dog barks and bounds off ahead of her she lets out a grunt and chases after it.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs,” he says, his bag of blueberries full and tied neatly at the top.

“I like you, don’t I?” Dorian teases, making to stand.

Cullen offers his hand and Dorian takes it without thought, but realizes the strange intimacy of it halfway through. He lets it drop as soon as he’s upright, but he swears the heat is getting to him because he’s almost certain that Cullen’s fingers linger a beat too long against his own. The frayed edges of whatever bizarre moment had been developing is swallowed by the faint breeze that passes by.

“Shall we?” Cullen asks, noticeably tucking his hand into his pocket. “You can see the lake up ahead, I think.”

“Oh joy, more water and bugs.” Dorian keeps his tone light, making sure to consciously throw in a smile. He doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he’d would, and Cullen’s quiet but steady presence has certainly helped, patient with Dorian in a way he wasn’t aware he needed.

They stroll along the boardwalk a while, chatting easily and enjoying the occasional comfortable silence (along with a few blueberries stolen from their bag now and then), and eventually they come to a bridge that crosses the water where it’s more like a river and less like a bog. Cullen takes a break and stands at the side, watching a number of people rowing little boats along the lilypads. Dorian props his hand on his hip, holding the bag of their combined spoils, and pushes his sunglasses back up his sweaty nose. Two people pass below them in a canoe and he can hear their voices warped and echoing as they drift along under the bridge.

“Now there’s a charming date idea,” Dorian says, with just enough derision to ensure Cullen knows it’s something he’d never, ever agree to. Not without bribing, anyway.

“Yeah.”

When he looks over, Cullen’s giving him that dreamy look again and it makes Dorian’s heart palpitate. He hopes he isn’t blushing. That’s something Cullen does, not him. Dorian’s at a loss for how to respond to such a look so he simply doesn’t. He chalks up any heat in his face to standing out in the sun. Cullen glances back out over the water and reaches, characteristically, for the back of his neck.

“When I was growing up I used to go out to a pond on our property to get away from my brother and sisters.”

Dorian nods. He’s heard the stories about Mia, who’d taken over as mother hen when Missus Rutherford’s health declined, and about Branson who was headstrong and exuberant. From the stories of how Bran spent his younger years relentlessly pranking his siblings, Dorian might have called him a rotten little devil, but Cullen always seems fond when he recounted the times he had to hold Rosalie’s hand while Mia cut wads of bubblegum out of her long hair. He knows a lot about Cullen’s childhood now, about how Rosalie is his half-sister because Mister Rutherford remarried after Cullen’s mother passed away. Cullen had been thirteen when it happened. Dorian has no idea what it’s like to lose a parent to such circumstances, and to gain a new one by marriage, but he does know what it’s like to want to reach out and know there’s no one there to help.

He supposes both are awful in their own way; the resounding absence of something you once knew to be there at one point or another. He’s just not sure which is worse, having been wholly and unconditionally loved and then stripped of it, or only a facade to be pulled away like a curtain at the slightest provocation of social deviation. Perhaps they aren’t something to be compared, individual tragedies to be held onto and hoarded, crystallized until they grow jagged over the years. Dorian thinks of his own suffering, fleetingly, the personal accounts of woe he’s learned to share willingly over these past couple of months, and standing here beside Cullen in the hush of the moment, he realizes they don’t ache in the old way they used to.

They’re still there, he feels them, cold and corroded in his chest, but they’re less significant now. Overshadowed by the glow of something much larger that’s taken root inside him, a radiance he foolishly knows is Hope in some distant part of himself he dares not actively think of on a regular basis. Yet, whenever he reaches to tamp it out with a shaking sort of willfulness—

“Did you have any places like that? When you were young?” Cullen cuts into his trailing thoughts, but it’s not an unwelcome intrusion. It never is.

His mind immediately jumps to the bottoms of empty bottles or the cooling sheets of some midnight tryst’s bed, but he thinks on it, only for a second longer, and he knows his answer.

“The old library in my hometown.”

The briny smell of the water is a paltry mimic of Tevinter’s balmy shores, salt on the air and tangy with the promise of capricious rain. In an instant he’s wrapped in the scent of worn books and petrichor, hurrying inside to hide from the thunder at the age of ten.

The libraries in the former Imperium are glorious, with all the pomp that Orlesians so loved to display in their Chantry cathedrals and none of the little paintings of fat cherubim. The stacks rise like spires, books from the polished marble floors to the towering ceilings, and the librarians were always kind to him. Their low voices grew less terse and more affectionate the more often he visited. He always returned his books on time. Always asked to help, always _asking_. About anything, about everything. By the time he was in secondary school he was practically working there.

In the summers it rained almost daily, and the clouds held his secrets, then, the way he spent whole days there when things at home were really bad; the yelling and fighting and hurling of insults from both ends. Mother and Father fought even before he became their biggest problem. In fact, they had him to thank for bringing them together. Their mutual dislike of one another had ultimately been mended by their united front to change him. The things they said, once so vicious to one another, eventually shifted towards him. But he was their child, scion of House Pavus, and he said things, too, things that dripped with venom. Things that both sides had claimed to regret, but never truly amended in later years.

Good old Pavus Pride.

“Really?” Cullen’s response is unassuming. He has no clue where Dorian’s mind has gone. “Have you been to the White Spire?”

“Can’t say I have, actually.” There’s an undercurrent to Cullen’s question that Dorian appreciates, a diversion from delving too deeply into unpleasant waters. He shakes his head. “I brought quite too many books when I moved. I’ve been focusing on keeping those organized. Rereading some of my old favorites.”

“So, you have your own personal library?” Cullen smiles at him, leaning with his elbows on the railing.

“You make it sound so prestigious,” Dorian says and mimics the motion.

“Isn’t that what you are?”

Dorian coughs out a dry laugh. He bats his lashes at Cullen. “Go on.”

“Your ego doesn’t need anymore pumping up.”

Dorian hums in feigned thought, a low, dangerously close to flirtatious sound. “Rather pump up something else of mine, then?”

He bites down on his tongue as soon as the words leave his mouth, regret hurrying to flood the cracks of whatever blow he’s just dealt to their friendship with his stupid joke. Cullen clears his throat and laughs, but it’s the awkward one Dorian’s seen a million times by now whenever an interested woman says something of the same effect. He knows the routine by now; a nervous, half-hearted smile, the slide of his hand over the back of his neck, a change in topic.

He doesn’t expect it to hurt so much when he watches it unfold with his own eyes.

“The night before I left Honnleath for good to join the police academy, Bran found me out by the pond. We were never very close." He looks sternly at the water as if it's dealt a personal attack. "He gave me a going away gift."

Cullen reaches into his pocket and produces a coin that flashes in the light.

"What's that?"

"It's an old imperial coin. I have no idea where he found it. He called it his lucky copper."

"He gave it to you? And you've kept it all this time. I think you two are closer than you think."

"I lost track of it for a long time." He hands it over to Dorian. "I found it in the bottom of a box of mementos, the night we met at Haven. I thought it would bring me good fortune on my date."

Dorian rubs his thumb over the impression of Archon Darinius on the face of the coin, Tevinter currency like this isn't rare, but it brings Dorian back to his first days in Ferelden when he'd had to exchange his pocket cash for sovereigns. The exchange rate had been enormous back then.

“Too bad it didn’t work,” he says, and he tries to give it back, but Cullen won't budge his hands from his pockets.

"I wouldn’t be so sure. Keep it.”

"Why are you giving me this?" He laughs it off. Totally hopeless, the both of them.

"You need all the luck you can get to help me find someone who'll put up with me."

Ah. Redoubling his efforts to find a woman, then. He's put all his faith in Dorian after all.

Still, it's an odd gift. "Thank you." He puts it in his pocket and smooths his hand down over his jeans. "I'll return it once I've gotten you a girl to take home to Honnleath."

Cullen stares at him, like he’s unhappy with Dorian’s answer, waiting for something else to follow, but no protests leave his mouth. He only offers a nod with a quiet, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

An hour more spent walking through the marsh gave them views of wildlife Dorian hadn't expected to see. Spoonbills and herons and turtles went about their little lives in ignorance of the big city that loomed over them. The boardwalk loops them back towards the blueberry fields and Cullen leads them back towards the car. As they pass the wholesale fruit stand he makes a fast detour to survey the strawberries and cherries. A woman with hay-blonde hair in braids down her back is coming over to check in on them. Dorian watches her hand graze over Cullen's arm.

"Can I help you with anything?"

"I was thinking we could get some other fruit to go with the blueberries." He doesn’t look at her, only at Dorian. "Do you like cherries, Dorian?"

"Yes..." he hazards. His eyes flicker between Cullen and the woman.

"These Nevarran sweets pair perfectly with blueberries. Are you going to eat them out of hand...or...?"

Cullen lifts a small container of the aforementioned cherries. They’re yellow and tinged with pink, like a blush. "I thought we might make a pie out of them for tonight."

Dorian looks more pointedly between Cullen and the woman now, not sure who he's really talking to. "That's...tonight? Did we have plans?"

"Are you busy?"

"N-no, but..."

At last Cullen regards her, "We'll take these. Thank you."

When she leaves to ring up the total, Dorian pokes Cullen in the ribs. "You should have asked _her_."

"What?"

Dorian whispers, "To go home and _make pie_ with you."

"I don't _want_ to make pie with her," he whispers back.

Dorian sighs and gives up. Cullen's set on a boy's day out, after all, and apparently there's pie involved. Perhaps Josephine is rubbing off some of her baking skills on him.

“Do you have everything you need?” Dorian turns and looks at the rest of the fruit while Cullen pays.

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

Cullen’s slipping his card back into his wallet when he catches Dorian’s eye. There’s a glint of mischief in it, slow-boiling and almost a precursor to a saucy wink, but it never happens. No wink. No smirk. Dorian blinks twice to clear his head of the fantasy, because that’s something he’d do, not Cullen.

They load themselves back into the car and make the short trip across town in treacle-slow traffic, which gives Dorian the allowance to glance at the landscape and then steal more looks at Cullen. He’s so Maker-damned handsome, and he hardly knows it, and he’s only getting more handsome as the summer drones on and on. It isn’t even that Dorian has gotten to know Cullen better, but as if the man has grown into himself through some kind of second puberty. No more is the stumbling, doddering embarrassment Dorian had first pegged him as back in the restaurant. Cullen is confident now, his hair grown out with the stylish carelessness of summer, his smiles and laughter coming easy like a sweet, mellow breeze that caresses. They spend so much time together now, it’s hard to remember how things were before. Most likely he filled his time with long evenings spent amid books and booze and bar quickies. He steals another glance and Cullen meets his eye this time, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an innocent grin. Dorian pushes his sunglasses up his nose and rests his hand on his bare knee, tapping, tapping.

Once they’re at Cullen’s place and the implements are set out, Cullen figuratively rolls up his sleeves and Dorian stands about, waiting to be told what to do while he looks at the recipe in a bound notebook, smudged with the evidence of Cullen’s prior cooking attempts. The idle thought of getting Cullen a new notebook runs through his head, but he dismisses it. Cullen’s professed many times that he’s no chef, and the birthday dinner was evidence of that, though it had been palatable enough.

“Combine flour, salt, and butter…”

“What’s gotten you into this mood, hm? Hand-picking blueberries, making a pie crust from scratch?”

Cullen blends the ingredients in the food processor and shrugs. Once he’s done, “Nothing in particular.”

“You’re an awful cheat, I can see right through you.” Doran shakes his head. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Spit it out.”

“Ice water, vinegar…”

The dough comes together in a few more unbearably loud pulses of the food processor. Cullen turns it out onto the countertop. “Here, roll this out flat while I rinse off the blueberries.”

“I’m indignantly rolling this out, imagining it’s your head,” he grumbles, and takes the rolling pin and smooths the dough out into a big, flat circle sort of shape. “You give me your lucky coin, we’re making a pie together, I feel like this should be taken down for an article in a magazine about new age masculinity. Whoever said bromance is dead should be shot.” He groans. “I can’t believe I just said the word _bromance_ out loud. Someone should shoot _me_.”

“If you keep it up, I won’t let you have any once it’s done.”

Dorian watches Cullen’s arms and back while he stands at the sink. “Vindictive.” He carefully lifts the dough and places it in the pie sheet, presses down the corners, and curses when it tears.

“This is my mother’s recipe, one of my favorites. I’ve never had the courage to try making it before. Mia used to make it, too.”

Dorian shrinks back, regretful of being terse and poking fun. “Oh. Well.” He fidgets. “I’m glad you’re sharing this with me, then.”

“I enjoy spending time with you, I don’t have a reason why, and maybe it’s stupid to...make a pie. It is stupid, isn’t it? We should be playing video games or...something.” Cullen leans on the sink and drops his head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not.” Dorian touches Cullen’s arm, and his skin is warm, welcoming. He holds up the pie sheet, with the crust fully tucked in and a decorative edge on the rim, if a bunch of half crinkles and odd folds can be called decorative. “What’s next?”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested for my sake,” Cullen says with a sigh. He looks up through his lashes, lifting his head slightly.

Something in Dorian’s chest pinches at the sight of Cullen’s crestfallen expression. He squeezes Cullen’s arm in reassurance.

“I’m quite offended you think me the type of person to faff about with something I have no interest in. I never waste my time on lost causes.”

That gets a sigh-turned-laugh out of Cullen and he stands up straight, moving into Dorian’s touch. There’s a thickness in Dorian’s throat as he realizes their proximity, the loaded breath of the moment that he chides himself for imagining.

“Besides,” he says, shrugging, “I’m utter shit at video games. You’d be miserable.” The joke falls unbidden from his mouth.

Cullen blinks, chuckling, but the tension has subsided and Dorian grins impishly as he takes a careful step back, though he aches to do the opposite. “Dorian Pavus admitting to be ‘utter shit’ at something? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Churlish, this one. “Yes, well, a rare moment of soul-crushing vulnerability. Even I have my moments.”

“I believe burning the garlic bread on your birthday was evidence of that.”

Dorian frowns, but doesn’t deny it. “Then perhaps you ought to tell me what to do with this pie crust so it doesn’t have a similar fate, hm? Focus, Rutherford, we have a job to do here.”

Cullen steps closer and grabs the pie sheet from Dorian, deft fingers moving to amend his mistakes already. Dorian finds he doesn’t really mind. He’s more than happy to step back and let Cullen work, his hands slipping into his pockets as he watches the blond with a secret smile that feels several shades too sappy. When his fingers brush against the coin from earlier, the warmth of his smile flickers, and he’s relieved Cullen is too engrossed in working around any mistakes in the recipe to ask about it.

At least one of them has the initiative to do such a thing.

Each day only finds Dorian sinking deeper into whatever this is, a trail of gnawing insecurities left in his wake, growing louder and more numerous when he’s left to his own devices in the darkness of shortening summer nights. He looks towards Cullen and sighs softly.

His hair and face is illuminated by the light above and when he notices Dorian’s prolonged silence, he turns, wiping a bit of flour from his face. “You okay?”

“Okay? I’d like to think I’m far better than okay. Amazing, stunning, even phenomenal, perhaps.” The worst part is that he isn’t lying. At least not when he’s around Cullen. Here, he feels absolute. "So good of you to notice."

"Yes, very." Cullen's youthful smile has him melting. "It's a wonder you're still single."

Dorian hums, pushing himself up off the counter where he’s been perched, leaving behind any ill feelings. For now, he just wants to enjoy this, bask in Cullen’s company and let himself feel _happy_.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Symmetry here: I'm so, so pleased to see how much everyone is loving/hating the slow burn. I'm afraid that's my fault, I insist on being cruel. Thank you all for the wonderful comments and kudos and the support. We'll keep the updates coming, and there will be a climax eventually, I promise. In the meantime I am really enjoying all this frustration. >:)

Summer is ending. It dawns on him one morning when it’s a little too brisk to get out of bed without incredible motivation. A chill nips at him, warranting a dash to grab the blanket he’d kicked off in the night and quickly toss it over himself, collapsing back into his pillow. He reflects on the last few months, full of weekends and occasional afternoons spent with Cullen under the auspices of boyish camaraderie. They’ve been to every coffee shop and bar in town and exhausted nearly all of Dorian’s brilliant ideas for meeting The Right One, and Cullen’s prospects are still drier than all of blight-weathered western Orlais. The summer is ending, and they’re no further along than they were at the start of it. Save for all the nice memories.

It’s baffling, watching the man fumble so naively through obvious flirtations and blink with those doe eyes, wide and unassuming as he lets yet another interested woman slip through his fingers like sand. He talks to them when Dorian manages to invite them to their table again and again, but he only nods and engages in the blandest small talk Dorian has ever been forced to bear witness to until the women plainly get the point. He has no gumption to take a step up and help himself and it’s grating on Dorian’s nerves.

Dorian asks countless questions, countless times after each opportunity disappears like steam. “Why didn’t you tell them about your job at the bakery? Or how you love cheesy reruns of old primetime tv? Or even that you play chess?”

Sometimes they leave empty-handed, out of disinterest, but a good few leave Cullen with their number. His odds are probably the best in town. But still, Dorian has to badger Cullen to send a text, to set something up, but the man always just shrugs it off  and says “Maybe later.” He’s as stubborn as an ox and it’s driving Dorian insane. Or, well, it’s definitely doing _something_ to him. It’s filling in the bitter cracks of his heart with soft putty, piecing it together with every blighted smile, laugh, and warm hand on his shoulder. He’s giving Dorian _hope_ and that’s frankly the most cruel thing he can do. He has no clue the effect he has on anyone, not women and not Dorian either. The man is far too comfortable in his sexuality and it has certainly begun to take its toll.

Dorian can handle lust, it’s an easy feat to quell a passing urge with a flick (or several) of his wrist, but this is something new altogether. He remembers lying on Cullen’s couch, the dirty dream he had and the ensuing erection he’d had to desperately hide, the long night he spent trying not to resume where the dream had left off. Having a saucy dream about a friend isn’t so odd, but the constant state of butterflies, the lingering looks and casual touches and the way Cullen looks at him _just so_ is starting to give him the impression that there’s something more there than simple attraction. They’re sharing meals now as often as they’re sharing inside jokes, and Dorian’s starting to worry that there’s a development here he might dare call Feelings with a capital ‘F.’

He lies awake at two am trying to process what it all means, but at the heart of it all he remembers that Dorian Pavus doesn’t _do_ Feelings with a capital ‘F.’

His attempts at securing Cullen at least a second date have reached peak desperation, and so it is with what little he has left from his paycheck that didn’t go towards basic necessities, he buys tickets to the local block party. His plan is simple enough: mill around, listen to music, and find a pretty woman to point in Cullen’s direction as he coincidentally stands in line for the dinky little ferris wheel they always put up. Surely the man can’t sit a whole twenty minutes in a confined space with a pretty girl in entirely awkward silence.

(Though there is strong evidence to prove otherwise, but Dorian is willing to take that chance. He has to.)

He rolls on his side. And then his other side. And then he flops over onto his stomach. The cool of the pillow against his face does little to soothe the heat that’s unmistakably pooling inside. With a curse, he flips back over and slips a hand down the waistline of his briefs, hissing with relief.

With a steady hand he strokes himself, teasing the tip with his thumb before sliding back down and giving a tug at his balls that pulls a moan from his throat. He thinks of Cullen’s pink lips, swollen from kisses, wrapped around his cock, tracing a vein with his tongue before taking him further, deeper. His eyes flutter shut as his stomach seizes, hips jerking, the thought of Cullen swallowing him down, eagerly pushing him closer to the edge. He can almost feel Cullen’s calloused hands on him, rough on first touch but gentle in his manner, that beautiful blush of his painting his features.

The scene in his head shifts to Cullen on his back, legs over Dorian’s shoulders, his cock swollen and leaking with need against his belly as Dorian’s fingers thrust into him. He imagines taking Cullen slowly, stretching him for tantalizing minutes before finally pressing the blunt head of his cock against the blond’s hole, leaving bruising kisses against his milk-pale skin. Dorian can almost smell him, the clean scent of soap and the familiar tang of sex.

His hand speeds up at the image, sweat beading at his temples as he kicks the covers off, his free hand trailing up his bare chest to tweak a nipple. He can see it, the perfect ‘o’ of Cullen’s lips before he bites down on a moan, the bed shaking and creaking underneath them. Cullen asking for more, faster, harder.

“Kaffas,” Dorian swears as his toes curl and his hips cant upwards into his hand.

In recent weeks this fantasy has visited Dorian many times, but as he spills over into an orgasmic haze, it never seems to get old. He imagines Cullen's face when he comes, red all over, clenching around his cock, and he can't help but squeeze as hard, move as fast, as he imagines Cullen would, racing to completion. Dorian is powerless to do anything but ride his orgasm through, to embrace the endearing twist of his heart as he pictures Cullen’s flushed, smiling face.

When he’s finished, he lies in his afterglow and dozes off for a while.

Dorian wakes, and he becomes aware of the thick thirst that dries the back of his throat, stinging almost as he swallows what little saliva he can to ease it. The second thing he becomes aware of is his phone vibrating like a ghost had been shoved inside it. It buzzes closer and closer towards the edge of his nightstand, and in one swift motion he grabs it just before it falls. He squints at the screen through sleep-crusted eyes.

Cullen _would_ call him before 10am on a Sunday.

His head flops back down onto the pillow as he answers.

“What,” he breathes. It’s not even a question, but a breathy sigh of desperation at the fact that he is awake right now. “Hello?” he asks when there’s no reply.

“I woke you up.”

And there’s something amusing; Cullen sounds genuinely remorseful and they’d been on the phone for, what, ten seconds?

“No, I always answer the phone sounding like I’ve been dragged through a sulphur pit.”

“I’ll just...call back later. Get some more sleep.”

“Oh no,” Dorian says, sitting up now. His free hand waves around despite being alone. “The damage has been done. Speak now or forever hold your peace, dear man.”

Dorian can hear the tinny breath Cullen takes before he gets on with it. “Well, I was just wondering…if you’d like to get brunch before we go to the carnival.”

“Block party.”

“Right.” There’s a pause and Dorian isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer or not. Thankfully Cullen takes the initiative. “So, would you like to?”

Dorian mulls it over, flopping onto his stomach as he rubs the sleep from his eyes with a small sound. There are certainly worse ways to spend a morning than over a warm meal and coffee across from a pretty man—even if said pretty man in question woke him up before 10am. Even if said pretty man had been used for the fulfillment of the most base needs, in the middle of the night. He was shameless, that way.

“I suppose I can spare some of my precious time for Eggs Valmont.”

He sighs and begins to slide out of bed.

“Great,” Cullen says, and Dorian can hear his dopey smile from over the phone. “I’ll stop by around eleven and we can walk from there.”

“Sounds positively charming,” Dorian says flatly with some dry amusement.

He expects Cullen to hang up now, but a small, and painfully sincere, “I’m glad,” catches him off guard. The lines goes dead before he can reply, and it leaves him with too much to think about in the prevailing hour until he can get a proper cup of coffee.

So he flicks on the television as background noise and pointedly _doesn’t_ think about it as he gets a shower going and prepares his outfit.

Cullen is there on the dot, not a minute past or before, and perhaps a month ago Dorian would’ve found it odd how respectable he was with regards to keeping an appointment, but now it’s expected like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. Cullen’s punctuality is a reflection of his character, something that balances out the erratcism that dictates Dorian’s own nature. Cullen never fails to avoid calling women back or responding to their text messages, but he’ll never show up late for a boy’s day out.

The chatter is sparse between them when they meet up on the stoop, but each other’s presence is all that’s necessary to fall into the lull of routine and comfort, shoulders bumping on occasion as they stroll through the city. The dire lack of caffeine in Dorian’s system keeps him foggy, hovering just above the level of awareness needed to fuel his usual concerns about this blooming “bromance” between them. The very word makes his skin crawl. Instead he takes in a breath of almost-autumnal air and relaxes, picking his steps along damp fallen leaves with care.

There’s a strange sense of encroaching finality as they eat brunch; guzzling coffee and stuffing down poached eggs and warm croissants.

Cullen perks up after they’ve eaten and make their way toward the center of the neighborhood where music is already blaring down the alleyways. More and more streets are blocked off to allow the foot traffic its right of way.

“I love carnivals.”

Dorian cringes. He’d rather die. They attract too many young parents with prams, too many sticky children, too much crying and tantrums. Dorian could provide plenty of the latter two, if need be.

“I told you, this is a block party.”

Cullen scratches his newly-forming beard, and Dorian can hear it over the sound of their scuffing footsteps. “There’s a ferris wheel," he remarks. 

Well, yes. Dorian can see the colorful buckets of the gaudy thing peeking over the top of a building. They put it up every year. There are a handful of games to play, and concessions of horrendously delicious and death-defying foods, but this is the middle of one of Thedas’ most populous and metropolitan cities, and calling the annual summer block party a mere carnival robs it of community value and purpose. If anything, it’s a massive urban festival. This is a celebration the locals throw for themselves, full of music and artistry and heritage, not some heartless means of making money by cramming a dozen elementary schoolers on a rickety thrill ride and stuffing them with fried cookies and spun sugar. It’s got more relevance than that.

Cullen hands over his ticket to the attendant at the turnstiles, and so does Dorian. They wade into the growing crowd, and Dorian keeps his attention on making sure Cullen doesn’t disappear into the fray. They wander by a few beer gardens, numerous food stalls, and a bandstand where folksy music is being played by musicians with beards and vests and instruments that look older than they are. It’s ludicrous, but the sound is pleasant, seems fitting for the cool air and the relaxed mood of late morning before the party goes into full swing.

“Did you see the man on the very tall unicycle?” There’s a joking, _I-told-you-so_ tone in Cullen’s voice.

Dorian doesn’t look up. “I’m fairly certain that wasn’t a performer. I think he lives in the neighborhood.” Oh, fuck it. “Fine. It’s a carnival.”

They lose themselves, for a while. Dorian drags them to certain purveyors of crafts that catch his eye, but his pockets are empty on purpose and he only browses. Cullen buys them each whatever food that smells the best; barbeque, yakisoba, roasted corn, funnel cakes. They stand around in a beer garden behind a small fence to keep out the underage and listen to a band playing on the main stage as flashing lights remind them of how dark it’s getting. Dorian rests his hand on the guardrail and Cullen’s hand absently rests right next to it a moment later.

“Let’s go to the arcade,” he says, and his pinky brushes over Dorian’s. “Play a few games and then head out?”

“Sure.”

As they’re leaving, Dorian recognizes the name of the next band heading onstage. He watches Iron Bull take position on a stool, his acoustic guitar in his lap, and Aclassi take his seat at the drumset in the back. Cullen walks off without him as a mild onset of anxiety takes root in his gut.

“You all right?”

“Oh.” Dorian breathes out, passes his hand over his mustache, and starts off again. “Sorry. I thought I’d lost something. Let’s go.”

The arcade is aptly named, a street lined with casual games for two or more. There’s a ring-toss, bocce ball, a large set of chess that makes Dorian say “no” out loud, plus a number of tests of strength, agility, and foolhardiness. Cullen spends a while at such a game, free throwing basketballs for a prize of his choosing, and Dorian buys a bag of caramel popcorn from a passing young lady in a costume and mask. He munches and perpetually scans the crowd, pretending he’s not nervous to see anyone else he knows. He watches a couple playing a game of bean bag toss, because he can’t bear to call it by it’s official name, when he’s nearly mauled by a preposterously large stuffed animal as it’s shoved into his arms. It’s purple and hideous and resembles some kind of hybrid from tales of high fantasy, a griffon, if the beak and the tail are any indication of its pedigree.

“I’m not holding your prizes for you all night, Cullen,” Dorian grouses from behind the giant thing, but he catches Cullen’s eye, which is crinkled by a smile.

“I won it for you,” he says, clearly amused.

“What?” Dorian instinctively wraps his arms tighter around the disgusting stuffed animal at the man’s words, juggling his popcorn and his drink. “Why?” He didn’t recall asking for one, but it was a kind gesture all the same.

“Because- I just- I don’t know. I just wanted to,” Cullen says, a bit exasperated.

Dorian had suggested they come to the festival—carnival, block party, whatever—but Cullen had been overjoyed about it. He insisted on paying back the cost of entry, bought snacks, splashed out on playing this asinine game, and for once never bitched about being too poor, which he was often in the habit of doing when it came to courting or taking a gal on an innocent date. Dorian is still gracious, however. They’ve both grown tired of harping about Cullen’s lovelife. And, if he's being honest with himself (a very rare thing these days), his heart might’ve seized a bit at the gesture. He isn't sure what Cullen is doing, but he isn’t going to question it, because, just for right now, he's enjoying being selfish. Just for tonight.

Dorian gives him a sweet smile. “I love it. Thank you, Cullen.” The blond positively beams at him. “Though it’s still hideous,” he can’t help but comment, making a face as he assesses the shape of the thing.

Cullen laughs and Dorian pointedly ignores the sickeningly sappy warmth that pools in his chest at the sound. The pity is, he knows this night is yet another failed opportunity to get Cullen a woman friend, and he doesn't really care. It’s the not caring that’s a bigger pity.

“Do you want to ride the ferris wheel?” Cullen asks.

Dorian squeezes the stuffed animal. Vignettes pass through his mind, of sitting side by side at the top when the ride stops to let the lovers in the buckets around them kiss and cuddle while overlooking the lights of Val Royeaux. In an alternate universe, he’d take Cullen by his collar and bring him crashing into his lips, and they’d disembark the ride as a couple, rather than a pair of reliable friends. He glances at the long line of male and female pairs who’ve queued up to ride, girls with armfulls of cotton candy or shaved ice, stuffed animals won by their paramours. He ought to say yes, just to get Cullen to stand in line and hold their place while he finds a young lady to take his place. But he doesn’t want to.

He opts for a no, and his heart is sinking as a result of it. “I’d rather not. I like to...keep my feet on the ground, as it were. You can go, if you like—”

“Scared of heights?”

Dorian shrugs. “Feel free to go. You don’t have to spend the entire evening with me, you know?”

“Let’s not split up,” says Cullen, and he rubs his neck and glances back at the ferris wheel with the demeanor of a scolded puppy. “The line is really long, at any rate.”

They wander around for a while longer, and Dorian shares his popcorn and the last vestiges of his drink until they pass by the main stage, headed at a lazy pace for the exit. Bull’s set has long since ended, and Dorian’s nerves settle down when they get out of the arena without running into him. But they round a bend, and Cullen trots off to toss their trash into the recycling, and with his gift trapped beneath his arm, Dorian licks the last vestiges of caramel off his fingers and feels arms crushing his midsection, lifting him off the ground.

“Dorian!”

“Urgh!”

He can hear the Bull’s laugh “You’re not gonna believe this, man!”

“Put me down! _Put-me-down!_ ”

Krem puts his hands up, glancing around at how security is raising their sunglasses and looking at the scene they’re making. He's quick to tell Bull to put a sock in it. “Chief, pipe down! And put 'im down already!”

Dorian’s feet touch terra firma once more and he slumps down, catching his breath. Bull swings him around and squeezes him in a proper hug this time.

“We’re getting signed! An agent for a major producer was in the crowd tonight and—” Bull lets out a choke of relief. It sounds like a laugh and a sob combined, and he’s sweating and blushing and reeks of beer, but he’s the happiest Dorian’s ever seen him. “We got an advance on our first studio album! It’s gonna be different from now on. Trevelyan and I can put aside some real money for…”

Dorian blinks, waiting to hear the rest, as little as it pleases him to be reminded by Bull’s new flame, and then sees how his eye has drifted over Dorian’s shoulder. His vice-like grip loosens up and he straightens, lets Dorian go, but with a suggestive look, eyes cast low over Dorian’s front. Dorian looks over his shoulder. Cullen is standing behind him, looking irritated. Threatened. Puffed up, like he has actual hackles, or feathers like a bird flashing its warning plumage.

“Cullen, right?”

He nods.

Dorian puts space between himself and Bull, backs off. “That’s...fantastic, Bull. I’m...I don’t know what to say. Congratulations!” He turns to Cullen. “They’ve just gotten a new agent. Big news for an underground band that’s been struggling for years. No offense.” He blushes a little in embarrassment but the others let it go.

Krem snickers and shakes his head. “Thanks, Dor. We’ve still got a lot of work to do hammering out the details of a contract. Nothing’s set in stone yet.”

Bull smirks and nods at Dorian. “There’s still a chance for you to become an official groupie, you know?”

“Don’t start,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Come on, big guy, we’ve gotta find the girls. Dorian, good to see you.” In lieu of anything else, he salutes at Cullen and hitches his thumb towards the seating area where tables and chairs are set up beneath archways covered in strings of twinkly lights. “Let’s go!”

They watch them leave and Dorian feels mortified though he can’t quite be sure why. He trudges on down the street and Cullen walks along slightly behind him, arms stiff and hands shoved down into his pockets. Dorian keeps his arms crossed, feeling the evening cold setting in, and regrets not bringing a light sweater. But he’d have needed to bring a bag for that, and what a hassle. They leave through the front gates where they’d entered and the main streets that are still open may as well be closed for how few cars there are. Much of the neighborhood is either at the party or holed up in their own houses to enjoy it from their windows. They jaywalk through a number of crosswalks until the silence becomes unbearable. It’s still a while before they get near his apartment.

“Andraste’s holy tits, it’s cold as balls out tonight.”

Another chill passes over Dorian as he brings his hands up to vigorously work heat into his palms with his breath, further supporting his point. He rubs at his arms, trying to conjure what little warmth he can, but it’s a futile battle. The stuffed animal provides little comfort, though it’s very soft. There’s another complaint on his tongue, but Cullen, with his ever-growing snark, beats Dorian to the punch.

“Well maybe if you didn’t insist on wearing such skimpy tops...is that something you rubbed off on Bull, or vice versa?”

Dorian gives Cullen a wholly exaggerated look of offense. He side-eyes the other man. Yes, the Bull is often either shirtless or has his arms exposed, but Dorian cannot believe Cullen has the gall to suggest either of them has a similar sense of style. He’s wearing a nice shirt, one that had been seasonably appropriate a few weeks ago. In the morning it had been sunny and hot, and in the swaying, humid masses of bodies at the block party, it had been comfortable, but now it’s not, and he’s appalled that Cullen is giving him shit for it.

“Really, Cullen?”

“What?”

“You’re jealous of Bull!” Dorian laughs, sharp and sudden.

“Andraste’s knickers, no I’m not,” he sighs.

“You _are_.”

“I’m not!” Cullen splutters, sounding exasperated. “I just don’t like how he looks at you. Like a piece of meat or...something.”

“That’s just Bull. He looks at everyone like they’re food.” Dorian shrugs it off. “There’s no need to be jealous. Now give me your sweatshirt before I die of exposure.”

Cullen laughs and stops walking, only to start unzippering the article of clothing in mention. Dorian stops short, not expecting him to really do it.

“I was just kidding.”

“No you weren’t,” he says, peeling it off. “C’mon, I’m not listening to your pouting for the rest of the walk.”

“Pouting? I do not pout.” He hands over the stuffie and raises his arms in compliance and lets Cullen help him put it on. Dorian feels absolutely ridiculous, like a child being dressed by his daddy, and in a bright red monstrosity, but it _is_ warm, lined with thermal material on the inside and the hood is fleece, and he doesn’t even comment when Cullen zips it up for him.

“Better?”

Dorian folds his arms. “Better,” he mumbles.  Who is this man, Cullen Rutherford, who will give you the shirt off his back? Cullen doesn’t give him back the prize he’d won, though, and Dorian feels absurd for hoping he hasn’t changed his mind about it.

They cross the street by a convenience store and as they pass under the too-bright fluorescent lights, someone calls out, appears from absolutely nowhere, making Dorian jump nearly out of his skin. After being grabbed by Bull, he’s still a bit on edge.

“Rutherford? That you?”

Cullen jerks to a stop and his hand darts out to protectively put Dorian behind him. He must recognize the man, because he calls back, “Samson?”

Dorian watches the man get a little closer. He’s dressed shabbily, hair greasy and eyes red-ringed. This “Samson” cracks a yellow, broken-tooth smile. “Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age. Still in the force?”

“No.” He doesn’t bother to introduce them, and for that Dorian realizes he is very thankful. There’s obvious tension between them, and Cullen seems to bristle more the longer they’re forced to look at one another. “Heard you were offered rehab.”

“Didn’t want any more Chantry handouts,” he says, shrugging. He reaches into his jacket and produces a pack of cigarettes, lights one. “Why? You lookin’ to score?”

Cullen clenches his fists. “Fuck off, Raleigh.”

“Relax, asshole.” Samson snorts and blows smoke through his nostrils. “Was gonna ask if you had any junk, but I guess I shoulda known better. Still a fuckin’ square. They offer to send you to rehab too? How’d that work out?”

“Get a life.” Cullen takes Dorian’s hand and storms off.

“Not illegal to possess, y’know, just to sell it!” His voice echoes behind them.

They make it all the way back to Dorian’s place without saying another word. Dorian steps up and fishes his keys out of his tight jeans pocket.

“That was a nice evening,” he says.

He’s not sure how to sign off, still wearing Cullen’s sweatshirt and looking sadly at how Cullen has been crushing his griffon in a death grip for the last ten minutes.

Cullen heaves out an immense sigh and takes a seat on the front steps of Dorian’s apartment building. “I’m sorry.”

“I assumed that was someone from your past.”

“Yeah.” He props his elbows on his knees and covers his face. “Samson was my old partner.”

Dorian sits next to him and lets their shoulders touch. He leans in, just a little. He gives Cullen room to breathe, but Cullen leans back against him. It's...nice. He doesn’t dwell in the consideration for long. This isn’t an afterschool special. Cullen is not the captain of the football team, and he, while he may have illusions of popularity and charm, he is not a varsity cheerleader.

“He was as petty and corrupt as everyone else.” Cullen’s comment jars Dorian from his satisfied huddle against him. He hangs his head and gives yet another of his derisive chuckles. “And I _was_ a square. Innocent. No. Naive. Stupid.”

Under his breath, he makes a scoffing sound, _tch_ , and shoves his fingers up through his bangs. Dorian doesn’t know anything about the police or what it’s like to be a cop, or what kind of life Cullen led before or after the force. He only knew this sweet, youthful man, delivery driver for a sweets shop who’d been stood up on a date. He was a hopeful sort of man, good at darts, and ate or drank whatever you put in front of him without complaint. There is a sudden grim reality coalescing around him, and Dorian fears it will turn Cullen into something unsavory, someone too complicated and depressing to get close to.

He’s got many acquaintances, but no close friends, and in all his years, even those he knew the longest he’d never been made to feel so vulnerable as this. Cullen needs him. The feeling fills him with dread, anticipation of failure.

“I saw him look the other way whenever we had to deal with kids. At-risk youth, you might call them.” He leans his elbow on his knee, and then his chin on his fist, looking down at fallen leaves, away from Dorian. “At first I thought he was trying to keep them from making a huge mistake, put them on the right path. But...I was an idiot.”

“What happened?”

Cullen clams up, and he takes a while to respond. “He was discharged for conduct unbecoming of an officer.”

That isn’t exactly the question Dorian asked, but he doesn’t ask for clarification. That world is not his world and he does not have the authority or any real hope to dredge it up.

He’s relieved that Cullen gives a soft close to the discussion. They sit in the dark for a while, until Dorian’s cold-bloodedness forces him to yearn for the warmth of his baseboard radiator even more than before.

“Do you want to come up for a little while?”

There is no subliminal message, there. He says it because he wants to end the night better than this, with some lightheartedness, welcoming Cullen into his home where he can laugh at the absurd amount of books in Dorian’s possession and the bohemian appearance of his sparse furnishings.

“No. Thank you. I ought to get home.”

So much for that.

He gets up and hardly says farewell, just gives a halfhearted wave. He stalks off towards wherever it is he’s parked his car, unless he walked, in which case he’s got plenty of time to clear his head in the frigid night air. Dorian opens the front door and makes it up three stories before he realizes he’s still wearing Cullen’s sweatshirt. Shit. He hurries back down to follow him, chasing at a slow jog until he spots Cullen’s car, parallel parked further down on the corner. Cullen’s sitting in the driver’s seat, illuminated by the dome light, with his hands on the wheel, head between them on the worn leather. It’s too fragile a moment to risk interrupting. It seems too much of a betrayal, and so he goes back to his apartment, sits on his couch, and puts Cullen’s sweatshirt up to his nose, and breathes in.


	11. Chapter 11

The next day, Dorian sends a meager handful of texts, inquiring about benign topics in hopes of reminding Cullen that he’s not alone, and that last night did nothing to change things. He inquires about the griffon Cullen successfully kidnapped from his possession, asks for its safe return. He mentions the weather, new colorful skies brilliant to photograph, and sends a picture of the skyline from his apartment. Each small missive sits, potentially unopened, in a potentially overstuffed inbox, and Dorian can’t help but feel a touch guilty for crowding, wonders if he should ease off. 

It all seems a bit futile until he finally hears back in the evening. Dorian wastes no time in reaching for his phone and opening the text. His reheated dinner can wait. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, perhaps a Cullen-esque apology, a brief reply to any of the texts he's sent.

Instead:

_ i need u _

He reads it twice. He backs out of the message and makes sure it's really Cullen. He startles himself with just how hard his heart starts hammering. The blood rushes to his face. He feels a bit woozy. 

_ i need u _

While he's desperate to come up with a quick reply, he's not sure he wants to acknowledge this admission. It's too bold. Like an overgrown field, it holds too many secrets, too many possibilities. What will he find if he traipses into the tall grass unprepared? He sits on the couch heavily, with all the unanswered questions like ballast in his stomach, dragging him down. The affection he's developed, one-sided at best, is too young, too wispy to withstand this sort of casual proclamation. Besides that, something sticks in the back of his mind about it. Cullen uses capitals, for one, and has never said “u” instead of “you,” not even once. 

He frantically writes a few responses but never manages to send any. Cullen texts again, impatient. 

_ rrlly drunk can u come nd get me?. _

Ah. That explains it. Quick turnaround. Must be a hint of Tevinter in that Rutherford bloodline somewhere.

_ Where are you? _

Why doesn't matter. The effect of the previous message dissipates because now he knows Cullen is still himself, has not become the dashing prince of Dorian's personal fairy tale. He gets up to leave and catches himself in the mirror; linen lounge pants and no shirt. A sweatshirt is the nearest thing, and it's the one he borrowed from Cullen. He zips it on and steps into a pair of moccasins. Keys, wallet, and the door bangs shut behind him. 

_ was at the dinging maiden but I left _

There's no “dinging maiden” anywhere in the city limits or beyond, but there  _ is _ a “Singing Maiden” on the east side. He doesn't know the area well but it's in the old downtown, can't be too hard to find. His phone informs him that it’s a bar with a live music act. 

_ And where are you now? _

The car is in gear. It's cold out and the wind bites at him through his flimsy choice in clothing. Cullen doesn't reply. He drives a little too fast, curses wantonly at idiot drivers taking their sweet time in the corridor that leads to the bridge. On the other side of the lake he takes the second exit and follows the main road. His phone’s navigation gets him to the Singing Maiden without any runaround, but he spends a few minutes driving around the block looking for a place to store his car while he hunts for Cullen. Once settled, he squashes any superficial humiliation for his clothing and asks the bouncer if he's seen a curly blond man stumble out any time soon. The bouncer actually spits and then sneers at him.

“He's probably wearing plaid. Looks like a construction worker. Scar on his lip, just here.”

The bouncer crosses his arms and looks Dorian up and down. He unhappily pulls a ten out of his wallet and it does wonders to remind the man of his natural human decency. 

The man snatches the money and hides it in his massive fist. “He came outta here maybe twenty minutes ago. That way.”

Dorian follows the man’s big finger where it points down the road. There are more bars and each of them is nearly a full house. He can’t believe it’s so busu, but this isn’t really his scene, has no clue what type of nightlife there is in this part of town. Dorian asks a few bystanders about Cullen, but he can't afford to bribe every hostess and door man in the city, and gets very little in the way of helpful information. He feels helpless. Cullen is out here somewhere, completely knackered, alone, and he needs him. It's an unusual responsibility. It is an honor in some ways and a terrible burden in others. Cullen should know better than to put his faith in a man like Dorian. But then again, he's only ever seen what Dorian wants him to see. Cullen thinks he’s reliable. 

He begins to text him  _ “I can't find you,” _ with further requests to make some effort to be found, but stops. If he’s that far under the influence, he won't be any use, and Dorian would rather Cullen not stumble around in the street this late at night trying to use his phone and get hit by a car. In spite of how he loathes the telephone, he dials him up. If he answers, there’s a slim chance it’ll give him audio clues as to his whereabouts. If not, then by the Maker Dorian will track him down by his annoying ringtone. By some small mercy, he does answer, and he slurs into Dorian’s ear that he’s at Serault Square, and after he ends the call Dorian has to ask someone, looking like a lunatic in his pajamas and his ratty hooded sweatshirt, where that is. They’re nice, however, two girls waiting to cross the street, and send him down and over a few blocks to a little park in the middle of four intersecting streets. On either side there are exquisite townhouses, and the square is walled with beautiful wrought-iron fences. Inside there are rows of nice ornamental bushes, a statue of someone who must have either been very rich or very heroic, and four benches. One of them has Cullen. He’s seated with his head between his knees, and it’s that mop of wavy blond hair that lets him know he can breathe easy again.

He walks over and very much would like to knock Cullen up the backside of those lovely locks, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits next to him. The metal bench is freezing.

“So. Decided to have an adventure without me?”

Cullen sits up and can hardly get a read on Dorian, he’s so wasted. His face is red and eyes barely open. “I’m a little drunk.”

“I can see that.”

“I parked in the garage thing but I was just going to take the bus home and I got- I got turned around.”

Dorian crosses his arms because it’s cold, mostly. He’s also a little perturbed. They’ve gone drinking together many times now, and to this point neither of them has ever gone this far. He’s past three sheets to the wind. He’s nearly capsized. He’d be horizontal, if it weren’t for the bench. What’s made him lose control like this if not last night’s unsavory run-in with Samson? He’s either put away his weight in alcohol tonight, or else he’s been drugged. The latter doesn’t seem likely, but it worries him either way.

A particularly morose moan comes out of him, and he drops his face into Dorian’s shoulder. His hands grip the fabric of his coat and he rocks his head to and fro.

“It’s all right now,” he says, and he pats Cullen’s knee twice in rapid succession. 

He moans again, and nudges further in, trying to burrow under Dorian’s arm. He feels cold fingers under the hem of his sweatshirt and actually yelps.

“All right, let’s get you home now. Can you stand?”

“Hmmnph.”

“That’s not an answer. On your feet, Rutherford.”

After much grunting and wobbling, they’re both walking and only swaying a little bit. Cullen’s arm is over his shoulder to keep him from toppling, and he’s damned heavy. 

“Thank you so much,” he says. He runs his hand raggedly through his hair, blearily looks up from watching his feet, and looks at Dorian. His lips come extremely close to Dorian’s face, and his nose brushes his cheek. He reeks of bourbon. “I’m sorry I’m drunk. I’m sorry I didn’t text you back. I wanted to but I, I just…” 

His voice breaks, and Dorian grunts as he hoists him back up from where he’s sagging nearer to the ground. “Think nothing of it. What are friends for?”

“We are good friends, aren’t we? Thick as...thick as thieves. I don't know what I'd do without you Dorian. I love you.”

“That's nice.” The reply is automatic. He’s paying more attention to unlocking his car and getting Cullen into the backseat. He slumps into the cramped space and makes a ghastly sound. “But if you barf on me, or in my car, the friendship is off.”

On the road, he asks Cullen if he can give directions to his condo. He has to look up into the rear view mirror to see if Cullen is still conscious because he takes so long to answer. “Cullen? How do I get you home? I can’t remember the way.”

“Don’t wanna go home,” is all he says.

“Well, you have to.”

“Why? Will you stay the night with me again?”

Dorian bites down on the urge to agree, or to argue. The man is drunk. If he argues with him it will get them nowhere. If he agrees… It’s too easy to make a mistake that way, isn’t it? They’re in a strange place now, where Cullen has let his guard down, and Dorian has grown fond of him. Any other time, any other man, and Dorian might actually consider it. It’s a dangerous quotient. From this angle Dorian can see how Bull must have been torn in many directions when dealing with his own battles with alcohol. He remembers too many nights that he came to Bull’s place unannounced, shitwasted, and fallen into his lap.

Lights from oncoming traffic make him flip the rear view mirror to decrease the glare. He can still see Cullen lying down in the recovery position he’d put him in. 

“I can’t stay the night,” he says, finally. “I have work in the morning.”

Well, in the afternoon, technically.

His voice is very small when he asks, “Can I stay the night at your place?”

“What’s the matter?”

He shouldn’t really ask. He should take Cullen at his word. Or he should just drive around the general area of the suburbs until he finds Cullen’s condo, but the likelihood he’ll be successful is slim. 

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

How can he deny such a simple request?

The rest of the drive is summarily silent. Dorian takes it easy on the turns and keeps his eye on his passenger. He turns the radio off and listens to the sounds of the city, of his blinkers and the low murmur of the engine. Cullen doesn't move or speak again until he has to wake him in order to get him out of the car. They get inside and it's like a blessing to be out of the cold. Cullen tries to lie down on the sofa and Dorian stops him. 

“Why don't you go lie down in my bed? The couch may seem comfortable now, but…”

He doesn't complete the thought. Cullen follows him to the bedroom and pitches down into the blankets, nestles in, but with his shoes still on. Dorian unties them, leaves them on the floor. Cullen makes a soft cooing sound of comfort. He cracks an eye at Dorian from where he’s cuddling the pillow.

“Smells nice,” he says.

Dorian sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you feel sick?”

“Nnh.” He reaches for Dorian’s sleeve, gives a tug. “Lay down with me.”

“You’re in a rare mood.” He resists. It’s not easy. “Let me get you a glass of water.”

He pulls away and spends a while in the kitchen. This is not how he’d imagined Cullen would see his place for the first time. 

The apartment is small but well-suited to his way of life. He has enough plates and silverware for one, seating for one, shelves and a desk with a slim laptop, a tiny bedroom and bath, and a small flatscreen television with extremely basic cable. It’s tailored to look nice, there are records hanging on the wall of his favorite albums (above a record player he rarely uses anymore,) and a few art prints he’s gathered or been gifted over the years. On the fridge are a few photos from years back, pictures of Felix and postcards from his many journeys up north. The trimmings of his home are elegant, they reflect his homeland, and they reflect an inner desire for the finer things in life. But they are shallow. It feels antiseptic, how there are no rugs and his footsteps echo coldly off the bone-white and off-grey walls. He’d felt instantly at home and comfortable at Cullen’s place. Here, the couch will prod you with hidden steel beams if you stretch out on it, there’s no pillows to cushion your head, and only one throw blanket that’s for decoration only. The overhead lights are sterile, bright, and housed in pretentiously minimalist fixtures.

Cullen is the one who gives the impression of having no taste worth mentioning, no care for aesthetics. He should be the one who thrives on the bare-boned necessities, but instead his home is plush and inviting. His pillows and blankets and towels and rugs are colorful, saturated, and the amalgam of different styles of furniture are rather charming instead of tacky or trashy. He has knickknacks on shelves that show his interest in the mundane but joyful aspects of his secret life. He collects bottlecaps. He burns scented candles that smell like hostas, oakmoss, cypress, and lemongrass.

The disparity between them and their living spaces draws a higher contrast view to his mind. Besides tonight's foray into drunken mischief, Cullen is a fully realized person. He has a lovely home with room to grow. Dorian will be the first to scrutinize others but, in this light, he sees that he has gone without examining himself for some time. He wants Cullen to feel welcome here. The want itself is bad enough, but to feel like he’s failed in that endeavor is all the more cutting. Cullen has said nothing, done nothing to suggest that he dislikes it, because he’s stone drunk and hasn’t been there long enough for the fussiness of Dorian’s book collection to annoy him. 

Dorian pours cold water from the pitcher in his fridge, into a nice glass he can’t remember ever using for anything but brandy or whiskey. Cullen, clunky, uncouth, probably drinks water from the tap. No matter what, he’ll always be a country boy from Ferelden. But he's also gentle and forgiving. He's considerate and brave. He realizes that when they're together, he feels protected, like Cullen is some sort of breakwater for bigger, scarier things than Dorian cares to deal with. Whenever men get rowdy at bars he breaks up their fights before they begin. He stands up for what Dorian would call “the little people” and does not abide a brute or a bully. 

He’s no longer a policeman, but he is a protector at heart. Dorian knows he would never put his arse on the line for people like Cullen has. He's too good for someone like him. 

It’s just his anxiety, his spectacular lack of self worth talking, but the voice actually scrapes at him from the inside. 

When he returns to his bedroom with a glass of water, Cullen is asleep. The plain white duvet holding his goose down comforter is tangled around him. One leg is kicked out. He goes back into the living room and nods off on the couch with an infomercial on the tv. He wakes up with an aching back and Cullen bumping around in the hallway trying to find the bathroom. He manages before Dorian can help him. When Cullen comes out he leans on the wall and Dorian cranes his neck to watch him. 

“Feeling any better?”

Cullen comes to join him. He sits down on the other side of the couch. “A little.”

“Don't want to go back to sleep?”

He tucks his long legs up under him and crosses his arms, folds in on himself. “Still too drunk to sleep.”

“I understand.”

“The bar was so crowded and loud…dunno why I thought it was a good idea to go out.” He wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve, something Dorian would normally take egregious offense to, but lets it slide for tonight. As much as a lighthearted jab at Cullen’s hygiene might lighten the mood, it’s not the right time. “Some girl at the bar was flirting with me.”

Dorian is careful in how his voice sounds when he asks, “How’d that go?”

“I um. I had a panic attack. I snuck out while she wasn't looking.”

“Oh, Cullen…”

“I shouldn't have tried to go it alone, but I was...upset. About Samson. About how I acted in front of you.” He runs his hands over his thighs in a repetitive way, over and over. “I haven't had an attack in years. I fucked up.”

Dorian feels himself recoiling because this isn’t the same Cullen he’s used to. He amends the confused, perhaps even uncomfortable look on his face by turning it into a forgiving smile. “No.”

“You don’t think I’m some kind of...thug...do you?”

“What? No, of course not.”

The muted television flashes brightly and catches both of their attentions for a brief moment. Cullen stays focused ahead, and Dorian takes the opportunity to study him from the side. His eyes lack their usual luster, dulled instead by exhaustion and liquor, but there’s another sort of heaviness that weighs upon his features tonight. Like a burden he’s carried for too long and no amount of confession will lighten.

“I didn’t really want to go out,” Cullen finally speaks. “But I just kept...thinking. About the past. About everything. It was driving me up the walls and I didn’t want to be alone tonight.” Dorian only has a moment to revel in the sting of the comment, of being the Backup Plan or Plan B for a night gone awry before Cullen adds, “I was so embarrassed. I didn’t want to bother you, just… Guess I wanted to prove to myself that… I don’t know. I feel like such a failure.”

“Hey,” Dorian starts, placing a hand on his shoulder. The contrast feels worlds apart from one of the gestures Dorian had offered Cullen all those months ago. That awkward, hearty pat on the back is nothing like this. This is softer, vulnerable, and, dare he say it, even intimate. “You’re not…”

Cullen interrupts, “Seeing Samson just...it was like looking at every mistake I’d ever made while on the force, like looking at what I could’ve become.” He hangs his head, shaking it. “Shit.”

“But you didn’t become that,” Dorian offers. 

It’s weak in terms of consolation, and he feels guilty for not being better at this. Better at connecting and reassuring and being a good friend. Cullen shakes his head.

“I almost did,” he says. He leans back into the couch, looking for all the world like he wants it to swallow him. He turns towards Dorian and frowns. “I almost did,” he repeats, softer, a whisper now. A chill runs down Dorian’s back.

“You don’t have to tell me this, Cullen. I know you're a good person.”

“I want to,” Cullen sighs. His breath is still thick with alcohol and he’s slurred the occasional word, but he’s gathered enough of his senses. “I haven’t told anyone before.”

For that, Dorian is grateful. Cullen knows what he’s doing. He  _ wants _ to tell this story. His mouth is suddenly very dry at that thought. To have come so far in this...in their  _ friendship _ depresses him in a way. Months of pushing Cullen towards woman after woman, and it’s in Dorian that he’s placed the most trust. The most concern and time and care. He’s an idiot. They both are. 

Dorian stares at Cullen and nods. Cullen’s lips are parted and he takes shallow breaths. He angles his body towards Dorian, moving closer. The couch squeaks a touch as he readjusts. Dorian remains firm in not flinching when Cullen’s arm swings up on the back of the couch, fingers just inches away from Dorian’s neck.  _ He’s drunk, _ he keeps telling himself.  _ He’s drunk _ .

“There was a hostage situation at a hospital,” he starts with a sigh. “I was there to pick up a drunk driver who’d been injured in a car accident. Someone on another floor had...barricaded himself in a nurse’s station, took the whole lot hostage because he was...I don’t know...he was so distraught over the whole thing.” Cullen runs his hand down his face and the words become progressively more venomous. “Sick child, expensive care, medical staff who don’t give...who don’t give a fuck about human decency. At the end of his rope, I suppose. Who wouldn’t be?” His jaw is clenched and he’s all but growled the last few words.

“What happened?”

“I got involved.”

Naturally.

“I tried to talk him down before he hurt someone, but it didn’t matter. He put a bullet in a doctor who refused to help him. I don’t know why, maybe he couldn’t be helped. Maybe the doctor was an asshole. He fucking killed him in cold blood, and I…” Cullen’s mouth quivers and Dorian focuses there, and sees tear tracks forming on his cheeks, big wet tears that drip off his chin and onto his shirt. It makes his heart feel like it might shatter a million times over.  Dorian clenches his hands into fists to stop from reaching out. “I pulled my gun and threatened to shoot, but he just grabbed someone else. A nurse. She was screaming and crying and I had to take it.” A sharp breath. “I shot them both.”

“Did she survive?”

Cullen nods. 

“And the other?”

“No. I, uh, had to go through a psych eval. They let me take some time off. I think they diagnosed me with PTSD and told me to relax. Right. Relax.” He dries his eyes on his shirt. “Samson came round with some pills.”

“I see.” Dorian nods, slowly.

“I went back to work and Samson kept pushing and pushing. I started to go down a dark path.”

“But,” he says, and he turns, puts his hand on Cullen’s knee, “you didn’t stay on it.”

“Being an officer stopped being my dream and became a nightmare. Everyone was a threat, and then I’d be terrified that it’d be me who snapped and killed someone. But I took the easy way out. Just take a hit and pretend it wasn’t happening. Samson made it easy. When he finally got sacked I guess I, uh, had to open my eyes and see how close to the edge I was, myself.”

“You decided to leave?”

“Yeah. I gave notice. That was about a year ago.”

“You’ve been clean all this time?”

“Mmhm.” Cullen leans on his arm, resting over the back of the couch. He closes his eyes, looking absolutely drained now from the exhausting efforts of baring his entire soul. He breathes a little softer, through his nose. “Sorry to just dump all this on you, Dorian. You’re a good friend.”

He finally realizes his hand has lingered on Cullen’s knee. He removes it, but with some dismay. “It’s all right. I’m proud of you.”

“Hm.” Cullen sniffs and they’re both quite a long time, until Dorian is sure he’s fallen asleep. 

“Don’t sleep here,” he says, and pats Cullen’s arm. 

Cullen opens his eyes, barely able to focus on Dorian’s face, pretending he wasn’t deeply asleep.  “I wasn’t.”

“Up,” he says, and grunts with the effort of helping Cullen stand. His arm is slung around his waist and the other wrapped across his chest, and Cullen leans fully into him. “Let’s move this to the bedroom. Ha. This must be the first time someone’s ever said that to you. Am I right?”

The mood is immediately lightened, and Cullen laughs, and it’s musical and selfless and makes Dorian feel as big as the whole world, and as capable. He puts Cullen back in bed and chastely lies beside him. He dozes in and out, and before he finally drops out, he feels Cullen’s hand with fingers bigger and more calloused than his reaching out for his hand, just to hold, turning Dorian’s cold heart into a blistering furnace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting to come into the home stretch now. Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Autumn has brought murky skies and an end to short sleeves and sandals and sunglasses. Dorian’s wardrobe only changes on days he doesn’t work. Haven is timeless. The waitstaff wear white and black year-round, glitzed up with a colorful tie or scarf as they deem fitting for their own personalities. He’s brought last year’s heavy jacket out from its hiding place in the top of his closet and worn it through the bluster of winds ripping through the city corridors, his cheeks and his ears burning cold with hands hidden deep in pockets, clutching a threadbare tissue to wipe his nose. He disrobes down to his uniform; a clean white shirt, starched, black trousers. And a brick-red bowtie in the most flattering plaid he could find.

He clocks in and spends his shift buzzing around a half-full dining room of late afternoon diners. The menu has changed with the seasons and he’s still memorizing the intricacies of each mushroom’s origin, whether there are allergens in the new salads, and which wines pair with the new fish, the mashed parsnips and potatoes, and roasted grouse. It’s a slow sort of day, because they are in the grey area between summer and the next holiday. Vacationers have gone home and in some instances, the locals have gone to their winter villas or up north to Nevarra and Tevinter where the winters are gentler when not much else is. Cullen is the only one in all of Thedas who’d feel the first frigid touch of winter and want to go back to Ferelden. It’s for family, though, and Dorian can’t fault him for taking care to maintain that beautiful, tangled web of relationships. Partly so that Dorian may live vicariously through him. 

His tables settled in, he snatches a ten minute break and nibbles on buttered toast and sips on curried carrot soup while Lavellan prepares to leave.

“You’re taking this well,” she says. 

He’s quick to ask for clarification. “What do you mean?” His heart in his throat belies his need to remain unruffled by Cullen’s absence, the last few days.

“I just mean the change in seasons. I expected more griping out of you.” 

Cullen’s sweatshirt is still at his place, never returned, never-asked-for. He chews and thinks of some excuse that doesn’t include the mention of how he wears it in the evening to keep off the chill, how it puts him in a relaxed mood by mere association.

He likes to think they’ve gotten to be rather close, these last few weeks.

“Me? Gripe? Never.”

Her far-reaching memory is despicable. “The first time it sleeted last year, I thought you’d had a stroke.”

“I have no recollection of ever being in a bad mood once in my life,” he says.

“Yeah. Ok.” She pulls on her coat and wraps her scarf around her neck. Pulling her long hair up from where it’s trapped beneath winter layers, she changes the subject. “Should be perfect weather for a hike around Greatwood this weekend. I saw we both have this Saturday off...”

He nearly chokes. “I’m sorry, have you gotten me confused for someone else?”

“A simple yes or no would have sufficed,” she says, only looking a touch offended.

“Sorry. I’m a little fed up with the outdoors for now. I might be busy that day, at any rate.”

“Oh. Going on another date with Cullen?”

Lavellan has been asking about Cullen often, ever since their little trip to the skating rink. Where have they gone already, what does Cullen like to do for fun, what does he like in a significant other? She’s given the impression that she’d like to help, but Dorian can’t shake his jealousy even when he knows it’s absurd. Lavellan has helped him in the past, been a good friend, even if they’d never be likely to see each other outside of work. Too different, at their cores. She plays sports and trains for marathons, goes to community college, and has a large, loving family with adopted siblings. She walks dogs on her mornings off for extra funds that she probably spends on very practical things, or saves it, or gives it to charity. Who knows. They are things that he adores about her, because she is an extremely hard worker, and also giving, considerate, and… Very much Cullen’s type.

Dorian knows better than to let on just how much the assumption makes his heart race. He eats his soup and ignores her most willfully. The answer to her question is “no,” but also “not just yet,” because they haven’t made plans. Cullen’s been gone almost two weeks, and last said he expected to be out of town a few days longer. He’s sent a message here and there to let him know he’s still alive, sent a few pictures, but they haven’t really had time to talk. He will endure torture before admitting that Cullen’s absence has left behind an indent, like a shopping cart drawn to the single, lonely car in an empty parking lot. He misses talking to him, he supposes. Misses seeing his warm, golden retriever looks of absolute satisfaction whenever they meet. The dent is there but Dorian thinks it’s giving him some much-needed growth to let there be space and to remember himself as an individual. It’s been a busy summer, and autumn will be brief. He should prepare for a dark winter, but hold out hope that it’ll be forgiving for once, to this hothouse orchid.

It’s been nice to his wallet a chance to relax, too, but the time apart has made him...wistful. 

“I choose not to gratify you with an answer at this time. Besides, he’s out of town.”

“When does he get back?”

He flinches. “Soon. This weekend, probably.”

“If he’s available, maybe I’ll ask him to go hiking with me instead.”

Dorian, in retrospect, has to applaud himself for not missing a beat. The jolt from his brain that tells his hand to stutter and spill soup all over himself is veritably ignored and he continues eating in seeming peace. Though his throat feels considerably tighter.

“I’m not his secretary. I have no say in his social calendar, despite what you may believe.” 

She makes a face, and it’s feline in how she lowers her lashes at him, leans over the small, rickety table that serves as a multipurpose break area. “You don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” 

His soup hasn’t spilled, but he stops eating, just in case, his spoon hovering. He collects himself, sits straighter, focuses more on the rich palate of flavors in his meal. Is that leek? It’s so nuanced, he has to focus to find all the little intricacies of the meal, and that’s his excuse for mentally checking out of the conversation. They need to memorize the new additions to the menu.

Miraculously, Lavellan doesn’t seem to bat an eye. “I just thought—”

“Don’t. Go ahead and have some fun in the woods or whatever.”

“Great.” She has to do some careful maneuvering but manages to pull her phone out of her pocket beneath layers of warm sweater, jacket, scarf, and etc. “I’ll send him a text.”

Dorian only smiles and nods, a silent bowing out to himself and away from this conversation. A tickle at the back of his mind makes him realize that Lavellan must have his number already, because she never asks him for it. She types into her phone, possibly  _ actually texting Cullen that very moment _ , and Dorian wants to swat it out of her hand and ask her  _ what in the Maker’s name does she think she’s doing _ . But he doesn’t. She must have gotten his number during their little duet in the skating rink. He simmers in a foul place of immodest jealousy for a little while. Mercifully, the topic is dropped and before long, she leaves with a darling smile and wave, all bundled up for the inclement weather. Dorian does his best not to resent this little encounter, because, as he continues to remind himself for the rest of his shift, she is his friend. It’s harmless. If they do end up a couple, then...well, it’s good, isn’t it? It’s been the goal all along. No two better people for one another.

The rest of the week stumbles by in a blur of work, and after that, bad reruns on tv, and Dorian finds the prolonged expanse of uninterrupted free time almost disconcerting after having such a busy summer. A self-prescribed glass of red after work helps ease the errant thoughts of Cullen. What’s he doing? Will the roads be in good condition when he plans to return? Will he even want to see Dorian when he comes back? He feels childish, wrapped up in Cullen’s sweatshirt, book in his lap, daydreaming about maybes and worrying over nothing. The only light in the room comes from the lamp beside him, a lonely ward, keeping his apartment safe against the encroaching dark outside. He stares forlornly at his phone, devoid of messages. For an instant, his hand twitches with the impulse to pick it up, but he lifts his wine glass and takes a long drag instead. The least he can do is be patient. Keep it casual. He’s certainly never been anybody’s clingy boyfriend, and he refuses to start now with someone who is certainly  _ not _ his boyfriend nor will he ever be.

The night they spent together a few weeks ago comes as a comforting reverie. The warmth and weight of Cullen slumped against his side, the heat of his hand when he’d reached for Dorian’s. The morning hadn’t been as awkward as Dorian had been anticipating. Dorian had woken first and rolled out of bed, refilling Cullen’s glass of water and leaving some tablets of aspirin next to it. He made a french press of coffee and toasted a blueberry bagel to share. When Cullen finally woke up they sat in the most comfortable morning-after silence of Dorian’s entire existence. Groggy and hungover and still somehow quite handsome, even with the grimace and the bedhead, Cullen had been quiet but content. Thankful. He’d dropped him off at his bus stop on the way to work, and the whole thing felt very suburbian, very wholesome and normal, and the residual good vibes had left Dorian feeling chuffed for days. The thought meets a cold tide of absolutely green envy, because poisonous thoughts about how Cullen and Lavellan might be covertly communicating under his nose infiltrate his mind. But he never asks her about it, even when they joke around at work.

He gets a text and the sound of his phone vibrating on the table dislodges him from fretting, getting trapped inside his memories. It nearly scares him out of his wits.

_ I’ll be back before the weekend. Do you want to meet up on Friday? _

Dorian reads it over a few times.  _ Does _ he want to meet up on Friday? Every fiber of his being screams yes, but he’s angry at himself, and he’s strangely mad at Cullen too, for reasons he cannot be bothered to investigate. He declines the tiny urge to lie and make up some plans for himself, just to make himself feel better. What he wants, for a childish moment, is for Cullen to feel a little jealousy, to show some dismay at not being able to see him as soon as possible. But he knows it’ll backfire. Cullen will be conscientiously polite and allow Dorian to have his own life, his own priorities.

He texts back,  _ Maybe. Text me then if you’re up for it. Thought you might need time to recover once you get back.  _

He’s already planned on giving Cullen time to settle in when he gets back, so it’s not a disappointment if he agrees with him. No doubt he’ll need a chance to relax from the long drive and the undoubtedly tiresome experience of going home to visit family on such short notice.

_ Good idea. Feel like I could sleep for days after this trip. I never thought I’d miss my own bed so much. _

He gets up and pours himself more wine before replying.  _ Still having fun, though? _

The response is a photo of what appears to be Mia and a younger woman—Rosalie?—at a table with cards in front of them. To one side is a blur of movement in the form of a young man, and then Cullen’s face, mostly out of frame. Family game night, and from the looks of Mia’s face, she’s winning, and Rosalie is in the middle of shouting, and if he’s correct in presuming that the blur is Bran, then...the table is probably in the process of being flipped as Cullen took the shot. Dorian musters a gentle laugh and studies the photo for some time. The Rutherford siblings all together, united for a rare reunion. It’s a milestone birthday for their father, who is absent from the photo.

He replies,  _ You all look like quite the lively bunch. _

Cullen responds quickly,  _ Only when the cards are out. And the wine. _

_ Wine? Sound like my kind of people already.  _ He swirls his glass under his nose. He wonders what they’re drinking but doesn’t care enough to ask. Cullen won’t know the difference.

_ Haha, well, they did say they’d all like to meet you someday.  _

Dorian blinks at that. Cullen’s mentioned him to his family? As to what he could possibly have said, he draws up a definitive blank, but a pantomime comes to mind: _Cullen, how’s life in Orlais?_ _Oh, I have a homosexual wingman turned emotional confidant and friend who’s been taking me on thinly-veiled dates all summer long._

He can’t come up with a response following such an embarrassing interlude, so he asks instead,  _ Where’s the birthday boy in all this chaos? _

Cullen sends a picture of an older gentleman, reclining by the fire in an overstuffed leather armchair. He holds a rocks glass and wears glasses on the tip of his nose. He has Cullen’s brow ridge and same pointy nose, but a neatly trimmed beard, pointy at the chin, snowy white, and a bit of a belly under his woolen jumper very clearly set them apart. He looks like a nice man. A good role model, perhaps.

_ Send my best wishes.  _ With nothing more to add, Dorian returns to his book and calls the conversation closed when nothing else comes through. 

Before he goes to bed, Cullen sends a final message,  _ I’ll let you know about hanging out. Can’t wait to tell you what we’ve been up to. _

Yeah. Short of hearing that Cullen’s misses the hell out of him, Dorian can’t be happier, can’t help but smile and wait for the weekend. 

He’s overly aware of the time on Friday, and the counting-down til the end of his shift. Every few minutes seems to warrant a checking of his watch and his phone, and he feels giddy in a way he hasn’t since childhood. While Cullen’s been gone, he went to the trouble of having that little Imperial coin turned into a charm and had it made into a bracelet. He’s excited to show him. With all that on his mind, his conversation with Lavellan feels like it happened eons ago, her words only a fuzzy memory and half-hatched plan. Dorian catches himself more than once humming, itching with anticipation but in a wonderful way. 

He knows he shouldn’t do it. Shouldn’t indulge in such a silly fantasy, but he can’t help it. A vague, formless plan of food, drinks, and a movie float in and out of his thoughts. Not the theater, but something at Cullen’s place, because his tv is nicer. Surely he won’t want to go out and hit the bar scene after so much socializing with his family back in Honnleath. Dorian will treat him to a cozy night at home, unpackaging all the funny stories about his trip, about the things he got up to with his siblings, about whatever exciting things were happening in southwestern Ferelden at this time of year.

He’s on his way out when he finally checks his phone. He immediately regrets it. Only half of Cullen’s message is on his homescreen and it starts with,  _ Sorry, I don’t think… _ before the character limit cuts it short. Dorian reluctantly unlocks his phone to read the rest, and with each word, he deflates a little more. He never takes disappointment well, not even when it's anticipated. Cullen's too tuckered out to meet. 

No matter. There’s still tomorrow. Dorian slides into his car before sending a message back. It gives him a few minutes to compose himself, to puff himself back up from being let down, to let compassion rise up in the place of selfishness.

_ Quite understandable. You’re probably exhausted. Tomorrow, then? _

Dorian hits send and is acutely aware of the way his phone doesn’t buzz on the drive back home. He tries his damnedest to ignore the lull and marches up the stairs to his apartment clutching his keys. The longer it takes to hear back, the more the barb sinks into his skin. So much for compassion...but...maybe Cullen is so tired he’s fallen asleep early. He’s not used to this rapid cycle of emotions. On the one hand, he trusts Cullen’s intentions, but on the other, he can’t seem to believe them. 

It seems all he knows how to act is temperamental. In that field, he’s been trained by the best. At a dearth for ideas to give himself some sense of stability, he decides to employ a time-honored Pavus tradition when not being given attention or being treated the way one wishes to be treated, especially by loved ones. Cullen made him wait, so now he’ll do the same. He ought not to forget the lesson that distance can teach: he’s got his own living to do.

The phone stays on the kitchen counter as soon as he gets in. 

He goes to the bathroom and fills the tub, tosses today’s clothes in the hamper, and puts on music. It’s loud enough to hear from the living room, enough to drown out the sound of his phone, should anyone bother to contact him, and loud enough to hide the sounds of life in the apartments surrounding his. There’s a basket of sundries where he peruses for some of the luxuries he’s saved over the last few years, sample bottles of bubble bath, salts, a pot of clay for a facial, and spends a long while picking some out. He lets himself slide into the encompassing sound of the music and slides into the bath in a similar way, immersing himself in steaming hot, frothing water, in the deep throb of bass and lilting atmospheric strains of electronic melodies. He slathers on a mask, woeful that he hadn’t the foresight to buy a cucumber so he can place the little slices on his eyes. He dunks his head in the water and listens to the sound of the music through the porcelain.

The tub gets drained and re-filled with hot water whenever it goes lukewarm. An hour or so later, he dries off, puts on comfortable clothes, and makes a little nip to drink before dinner. On the way to sit down, he notices his phone is flashing to alert him to a missed message. He unlocks the phone and frowns at what he sees:  a number of missed messages from Cullen over the past two hours.

The first, _ Ah, Lavellan asked me to go hiking already.  _

The timestamp shows this next one was sent about fifteen minutes later, _ You’re welcome to join us! _

And the last, another few minutes later,  _ I’m sure she’d love to see you outside of work! _

Dorian scrubs a hand across his face, frustrated and quickly becoming irrationally upset. It’s been growing all evening and now there’s so much momentum, he can hardly stop himself. Yes, she’d be thrilled. Having Dorian as the squeaky third wheel on what will probably otherwise be a perfect date between two perfect people perfectly suited for one another. His imagination conjures up images of Lavellan swooping in to save a swooning Cullen from tumbling down the face of the mountain. There’s no way he’d be able to resist a woman like that. And he shouldn’t. It’s what these past few months have been entirely about and now Dorian’s job is done and he can sit back and wait for the upcoming wedding invitation. He slouches, folds in on himself. He knows he’s being ridiculous and  _ perhaps _ just a touch dramatic. Dorian manages to type out a message in response with only a hint of vitriol.

_ No, no, you two have fun.  _ He sends it, then another, perhaps to lessen the blow.  _ No need for a wet blanket on an otherwise lovely outing. You know how much I prefer the comforts of civilization.  _

Dorian stares at his phone and watches with rapt attention as Cullen starts to type something, but stops. Pride of having shut him down, put him in his place, bubbles up in his chest, but it quickly pops. He sighs. There should be a sense of satisfaction where only bitterness lies. He’s more angry at himself for being petty than he is at Cullen for snubbing him, and at Lavellan for actually going through with what he’d hoped had only been a taunting jest. It’s honestly beneath him to be so grudging about the whole thing. Is this what he’s become? Cullen is  _ not  _ his to claim or to keep to himself. 

_ Nevermind me. You two should just make a date of it. Take her to dinner afterwards. _

Dorian closes his eyes and takes a breath, telling himself that maybe Cullen will overlook any subtext and think him sincere. Maybe Dorian even means to be sincere, but can’t fully convince himself. 

No. That’s complete bullshit, but he holds onto that small shred of hope that maybe he’s at least a half decent person. 

_ Ok. I’ll be around. Let me know when you want to meet up. _

Suddenly he doesn’t feel like doing much of anything. He forces himself to eat, grazing on rice crackers and fruit instead of the meal he brought from Haven to heat up for dinner. He leaves his phone sitting out on the coffee table. Throughout the rest of his night, he looks to it, quietly, but it never buzzes again. The conversation has ended, Cullen’s left it in his court. Dorian gets into bed, but the idea of sleep only taunts him. 

The night goes, as molasses does, and trickles into Saturday, and Dorian works himself to exhaustion so that he can’t get any angrier.

In the afternoon, Cullen sends him a real-time picture from the highest peak of Mount Hunterhorn, with the great valley of Greatwood beneath them, leaves changing in a blaze of red and green and amber. Lavellan is posing very cutely in the background. 

_ We missed you _ , he says.

Dorian wishes he can throw his phone in the lake, but it’s a mere moment’s stupidity.  _ Say hello to all the bugs for me _ . It’s all he can manage to say about anything, even when he’s missing Cullen like crazy. 

The next time he sees her at Haven, Lavellan shows him other shots of little woodland creatures, a creek running beneath fallen logs, resplendent with ferns and moss, and for two days it was all she can talk about. He’s always happy to listen, even when it grates on him from the inside. Even when blisteringly jealous and resentful below the surface, he gives a half grin and laughs at her anecdotes. At this point in his life, he’s become an old hat at harboring great amounts of spite, but he’s also got the benefit of class, and is never rude to her face. 

Cullen texts once or twice more after the last photo of the summit, and when Dorian hesitates to reply right away, it gets very easy to just...never get around to it at all.

Like a domesticated cat, he’s putting space between himself and the things that have made him irritable, unhappy, inconvenienced. He returns to center, or so he’d like to think. He gets a haircut and feels like he’s shed some of his lingering bad habits with last season’s split ends. He goes to bed early several nights in a row, and it takes a while for him, every night, to go to sleep without reflecting poorly on himself for continuing to, at his own pace, get back to Cullen’s intermittent text messages with only the most fleeting and sparing responses until they dry up entirely. Vindictiveness is a fault he can own up to, but only within his innermost diatribes. The rest of his time he spends swinging drastically between melodramatic, pithy sadness, pleasant numbness, and mild optimism. For Lavellan. She is a gift, and faultless. 

Cullen on the other hand, he is as deserving of Dorian’s chilly behavior as a dog is deserving of being yelled at for shedding. Because ultimately, he’s innocent in this equation. And guilty as sin. Dorian knows he’s being ridiculous and yet he continues to keep up a formal distance. It is so much easier than accepting the fact that things might not be the same as before Cullen left for Ferelden.

But, Maker damn it all, he thinks about Cullen very often and even when the mood takes him to revisit his naughty dreams, he doesn’t, and counts it towards his ongoing reformation. He is practically a schoolmarm, untouched by the tumultuous lust that had claimed him for so long in younger years. This will be good for him, and even if Cullen doesn’t know it, it’s good for him too.

In that distance, during breaks and before bed, he looks at the long list of messages between him and Cullen and only a warm feeling is there, and he misses him, and as much as it irks him to admit it, he wants to see him  _ so badly _ it manifests as an actual, physical pain.

At the end of the month, it’s like Cullen never came back to Orlais at all. 

The rains come more frequently as autumn comes into full swing. After a long commute in heavy rain, Haven feels like an instantaneous get-away to more pleasant climes. Well-lit, colorful, full of laughter and smiles, good smells, good energy. He works through the late breakfast crowd and just as the lunch hour arrives, a business party takes up much of his time, but tips him beyond his wildest dreams. Fat pockets bulging with gratuity often do perk him up, and so even Sera’s grumbling and Leliana’s cold-forged, gloomy direction can’t penetrate his aura of goodwill. His following customers receive only the best customer service. In the afternoon there’s a doldrums, and when he reflects upon it, he realizes Cullen is the last thing on his mind, and it makes him feel like he might be able to pardon the fact that former Commander Rutherford hasn’t asked to see him yet. Bygones, and etc. The time apart will have done them both good to put things in perspective. He can be his friendly self again, and all will be forgiven. He makes a mental note to text him on his next break.

Within the hour, the rain has stopped and left only slick streets as evidence it was ever there. The clouds pass and with them, Cullen comes walking through the door, unannounced. He pauses at the hostess’ podium. Dorian spots him immediately, because who wouldn’t? 

"I wasn't aware I was meeting you here today,” he says, casual but with a hint of a smirk.

He’s wiping down tables but the sight of Cullen backlit by the sunlight coming in through the windows can only improve his mood even more. He’s paid a personal visit, and the attention strokes Dorian’s ego just softly enough to put his pretenses aside. Relief sweeps in, and it feels damn good see his friend. The only thing stopping him from dropping what he’s doing to run over and greet him is how mortifying it would be if anyone saw him.

He finishes up and comes over to the podium absolutely guileless, carefree. "I meant to text you the other day,” he says, and trails off. There’s no apology, because perhaps he doesn’t need to. “I get off work at eight, but if you're around later..."

Cullen shifts on his feet, sticks hands in pockets, and avoids Dorian’s eye. He’s red in the face, and not in the way Dorian has come to admire. “I'm uh—I'm actually here to see Lavellan. I'm picking her up for lunch."

His tone is...well, it’s not impolite. It’s forward. Terse.

“I see. Well, she should be in the back.” He turns away and pretends to scout around the room for her. He finds himself fidgeting with the dishrag and stops doing so immediately. The hostess comes to put Cullen at a table, and he shakes his head, steps away so that he doesn’t take up room. “Shall I, eh, go fetch her?”

This is beyond the pale. It’s so far beneath him he can’t even see the bottom of it. Cullen doesn’t answer and won’t even look him in the eye.

Over the last few weeks he’s run the gamut of painful emotions. Doubt, betrayal, loneliness, disappointment, disillusion. Fondness. Because of Cullen, because of an imagined Cullen in his mind, because of himself and how little he’s allowed himself to grow out of childish manipulation.

He clears his throat, because this is how things are going to be now, apparently. Not too unexpected. “I take it things are going well between you two.” 

There’s a hidden question there, a heavy layer of spite. Obviously hiking went well if they’re going on a second date. It’s a milestone for Cullen in terms of dating, and he’s earned it. Hell, it might even be a third date, for how far out of touch they are. 

He sputters a little bit, coughs into his fist to cover it up. It’s only a small satisfaction. He’s uncomfortable and Dorian thinks he deserves to stew in this horrible exchange for as long as possible. “Y-yeah. You could say that, I guess.” 

Dorian’s job is done here, so it seems. He can’t feel anything.

“Hey! Sorry it took me a sec. Ready to go?” Lavellan breezes out of the back and swings her coat on, brightly greeting Cullen with her best smile. She looks up at him and just beams, and he looks down at her, completely stiff. 

“Mmhm.”

She turns and waves at Dorian. They make for the door and she has to quickly toss over her shoulder, “Have a good rest of your shift, Dorian. Thanks for helping with that order earlier! I left part of the tip in your jacket pocket!” She’s being dragged through the door after Cullen and her goodbye is clipped, in departure. 

Cullen doesn’t say goodbye, and if he waves, Dorian misses it, because his back is turned. He tells himself this is a victimless crime. The bills left in his pocket by Lavellan crumple in his fist when he walks back to his car. They wind up in a panhandler’s guitar case, and Dorian blusters through the interaction, not looking at the face that smiles at him, not hearing the heartfelt thanks or the strains of music, ears full of buzzing like a hornet’s nest. There are no selfless acts of kindness, his father would have said, and in that moment, Dorian could not agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> symmetry: Happy Friday! Hope you're still enjoying the story. Thank you so much for your great engagement and wonderful comments! Expect the story to wrap up in about two more chapters, plus maybe an epilogue. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latest chapter a day early? Why not. Enjoy.

When the apartment is clean, floor mopped and waxed, rugs vacuumed, dishes cleaned, bed linens laundered and reapplied, bathroom spotless, Dorian goes through his books. He re-alphabetizes them by author and types up a spreadsheet to keep better track of what he does and doesn’t own, what he does and doesn’t desperately need to acquire. He sorts the table a myriad of ways to figure out which ones need to be sold or donated, but he never manages to remove a single one from his inventory. He aggressively appraises his pantry and gets rid of food past the date code. When his habitat is in order, he spends hours perusing the online storefronts of his favorite outfitters. He “loses” his cell phone in the couch cushions. The little bracelet, freshly shipped from the jewelers, in a little bag, is tossed somewhere in the junk mail pile for the time being.

He takes a few days off from work and goes completely incommunicado. He’s blissfully left to his own devices. Devices that quickly run out before he's scheduled to return to work. He finds himself taking up pastimes he's never been interested in before. He goes on long walks. He watches home decorating shows and cooking specials and documentaries. He runs to the corner shop and buys fresh food, tries his hand at cooking, and only blows his top a little bit when he burns a tray of muffins. Once, he runs into his neighbors at the mailboxes in the lobby and stands a while and chats with them. He writes a letter (an actual, handwritten missive!) to Felix, and to Gereon too, and makes all the appropriate apologies for letting himself become so estranged. Details are sparse on certain things, and gratuitous on others, as is his style, and to be expected.

And all the while, in the back of his mind, he is screaming. There is no outlet. All is well, so far as anyone else can tell. 

The night before he’s due back at work, he comes down with...something.  Nerves. Stomach upset, nausea, migraine, body aches. Runny nose, bit of a tickle in the throat. The very thought of dealing with customers makes him want to break down and cry, but he never does. He takes up residence on the couch, infirm and miserable, and somehow satisfied. He miraculously “finds” his cell and plans to call out sick. Just a day or two. If he’s up to it, in the morning he can run to the drug store and shake off this minor annoyance with a few gallons of orange juice. For now, he’s got a half pack of leftover medicine from the last time he got a cold, and takes two with a big glass of water and snugs into the couch with his blankets.

It’s the first time in two days that he’s bothered to even hazard a glance at his phone, because he has to get a hold of Leliana. Dorian barrels right past the  _ six _ unread texts from Cullen. He gives them no thought, not at all, and lets Leliana know he’s ill. She calls him within moments of receiving it. Exaggerating his illness a bit, he half-coughs and groans his way through an explanation of why he won’t be in for work. A few times, his stomach does lurch, and Leliana, always harsher-sounding on the phone than she really is, gives him grief for being so dramatic, but lets him go, gives him a day off and asks for an update if he expects to be out any longer. She mentions that Lavellan will cover his shift, and once finished with the call, he lets his hand loll off the side, intending to sling his phone onto the coffee table, but it slips instead, and clatters onto the floor. Oh well. What a shame. He’ll just have to pick it up later. For now, curling up into a ball on the couch, a burrito of blankets and pillows, is his main priority. He goes to sleep and all of his strange feverish dreams are unwelcome in one way or another, waking every hour or so to see something new on the tv before drifting off again.

As he dozes, he thinks of Cullen and Lavellan. It isn’t even a conscious process. He thinks of them hitting it off, walking around in the majestic wilderness with dew shining on the leaves, sunlight falling between gaps in the canopy where it shines on Cullen’s hair, and the emerald green ferns and the mosses are the same as Lavellan’s eyes. Their heads pushed together, shoulder to shoulder, huddled beneath some rocky overhang to keep out of the rain, eyes locked, giggling like lovebirds. Dorian wonders how it might feel to hold Cullen’s hand again, if his stubble scrapes against her face when he leans in to kiss her, or if Lavellan feels safe when Cullen wraps his arms around her— even in a brief, fleeting hug. 

This is just like last time. When he and Bull broke things off. When  _ he _ broke things off because Bull wanted to take a break, see other people, but stay  _ together _ . For weeks afterward he spent a better portion of his energy thinking about Bull than he did on anything else. It was like a slow poison, one question bleeding into the next. Who was he with? What could he have done to do better? To be more? There were no correct answers. It ate him up from the inside back then, just like it’s doing now. 

It seems he’s fated, even when trying to avoid it, carefully keeping Cullen at an arm’s length, to stumble into the same pothole over and over. They catch Dorian off guard each time. Are they intimate? Did they fuck on the first date? Why isn’t he good enough? It’s asinine, considering how it’s been  _ his  _ intention all along to get Cullen a girlfriend. But jealousy stings with the same depth and intensity as it always does. He grows furious and petulantly mashes the tv remote to change the station, looking for something that will hold his attention better. From behind a small mountain of tissues, he can barely see the screen. From the looks of the programming, it’s well past midnight, probably three or four in the morning.

His attention lasts only minutes before the mixture of exhaustion and cold meds drag him back to sleep. Under his twitching eyelids are vivid images, a mishmash of trashy daytime television and a multitude of harrowing emotions that taunt him, stirred up by the events during these last few weeks. It seems that even here, in his cocoon of half-consciousness, he cannot escape. He can feel the gravity of his situation pressing down on him from every angle, his guilt and lust and  _ feelings  _ binding him until he can’t breathe. Envy courses throughout, made even more poisonous by just how attached he’s become, how attracted, how... _ smitten _ . He dreams of chasing Cullen through a landscape of countless familiar locales, warped by his subconscious. Bars and clubs, cafes, libraries, all full of bodies and noise, through which he must propel himself on weakened limbs, crying out on a hoarse throat for Cullen to wait. He flings open yet another door and sees a hospital ward, gurneys and desks and chairs all upturned. Dorian hasn’t been in a hospital in a long time, but he remembers the smell, remembers the look of shining, sanitized things, and the pervasive feeling of hope, how it teeters on the edge of despair.

He can’t find Cullen anywhere, no matter how he yells, he only hears his own voice. Further steps take him deeper into the hospital, and he hears water running, and steps in puddles, struggling through blocked pathways that rapidly turn into the aftermath of an earthquake or some other disaster. Fear digs into him. He can’t remember why he’s searching for Cullen but he knows he must find him, and the panic urges him onward. At the end of the hallway, there’s a final set of double doors, and he presses into the crash bars, and at his feet, he sees blood, and he follows the trail to Cullen’s feet. He opens his mouth to say something, and all that comes out is a scream.

Dorian flails awake, struggling to untangle himself from the heap of blankets. His shirt’s damp and he’s breathing heavy. Unexpected sunlight flits in through his windows and he feels somehow even worse than before, filthy with the prior day’s grime and sweat, unaware of the hour or even the date. His lungs are heavy with phlegm, his eyes are full of crust. Just breathing makes him sound a bit like a dog’s squeaker-toy. The phone is ringing, and he realizes a little too late that it’s the sound that woke him up. He nearly falls on the floor, scrabbling to pick it up. It’s Leliana, and seeing her name on his phone strikes a chord of fear inside him.

Answering, he responds to a perturbed “Hello? _ ” _ with a coughing fit.  He’s not sure if he’s missed work, to be honest. 

“Dorian? Maker’s sake- If you really needed to assure me that you’re still sick, you needn’t be so dramatic.”

He finally clears his throat, head throbbing, and strains to reply without further shredding his throat. “What day is it? Have I overslept?”

“You called off last night. I called to check in on you. I imagine you’ll be needing another day or two to recover, from the sounds of your voice. Unless you’ve been out partying all night.”

“No! No, nothing of the sort.”

There’s a pause over the line where she must be making an expression of mild disbelief. Even she’s overheard stories of how he’s been burning the midnight oil with Mister Rutherford over the summer, visiting every nightclub and bar on the westside. 

“Mmn. We have an event tomorrow morning and I need my best people. I was hoping you’d be feeling better.”

“As much as you flatter me,” he flops back onto the couch and reaches for a fresh tissue, finding an empty box, which he tosses over his shoulder, “I’m useless like this.” He sniffs, and it showcases how stuffed up and wet his sinuses are. 

He’s an infant, when it comes to being ill. 

“Get some rest, then. I want to hear back from you if it gets worse. Otherwise I’ll expect to see you the day after tomorrow. Does that sound fair?”

It will hurt. Two more days without pay will mean just that many bills he won't be able to pay, just that many trips to the grocery store he’ll have to miss, or worse, in the coming weeks. He assents to her suggestion and tucks into the corner of the couch, chasing a better dream than the dreadful spectre he woke from, than the nightmare he’s currently living.

By the end of the second day of his recovery, he’s stiff and spent every moment awake wishing he were asleep. Most of his body has liquified in one way or another, but the unseen vice his head has been trapped in has loosened up. He’s desperate to call off again but can’t bring himself to dial up Leliana. He feels better, theoretically, and it is just a little seasonal cold, but with the aches and pains of sickness comes a fragility, a nervousness that makes it hard to be eager to leave the comfort of his home. He texts Sera, asking if she can cover for him. She never gets back, and as he checks again for a response, he sees unanswered messages from Cullen, and can’t bear to just delete them, as much as it would soothe his mind to do so. A few hours later, he’s resigned himself to showing his face in Haven, regardless of how poorly he feels, bright and early in the morning. He gets up to try and sort out the mess that’s become of his home (and after so much time spent tidying up!) when there are a number of loud thuds at the door.

He squints into the peephole, shrouded by his blanket. Lavellan is standing there holding a paper sack from the corner market. He sags into the wood. 

“Open up!”  _ Bang bang bang!  _ “Pavus, I know you’re in there!”

“I’m sick! I’ve been laboring here with a cold—all alone, mind you—for days.”

“Well, if you can manage to get up for two minutes and open the door, I’ve got a goodie basket for you. So you don’t have to  _ be alone _ .” She hangs onto the last syllables for extra theatrical value, and for the snark.

He lets her in, greasy hair and all, and immediately returns to collapsing on the couch. She unloads her bag in the kitchen. A tall glass of orange juice with a straw shows up on the coffee table a few moments later, along with a box of cold remedy lozenges. He can see the glass and the package through the sliver-thin gap in the mass of blanket around him. He’s on the mend, but having her in his space, treading on all his sore spots, even while comforting him immensely, makes him feel doubly pathetic. Lavellan busies herself cleaning up after him. She clears the table of accumulated trash and napkins and opens up the curtains, lets in some fresh light and a bit of air. It’s sunny out, but only just. It’s white and gray and overcast, but it’s brighter out there than it is in his apartment. He props himself up and drinks the orange juice.

He wipes his nose between long sips of juice, pulp-free, just the way he likes it. “Be honest. Is Leliana furious with me?” He sounds stuffed-up and sad, and doesn’t really like being in Lavellan’s debt in this way. 

“You’ve only been out a few days. It’s flu season. What’s she going to do,  _ force _ you to come and work?”

“I did take a week off before that.”

“I noticed.” Lavellan tucks one side of her mouth, chews her lip. “I’ll let her know you’re still under the weather,” she says.

“Don’t do that. I need to go back to work,” he says, trying to convince them both.

He knows he can manage returning to Haven. If he’s not right as rain by the time he clocks in, Leliana will just have him bus tables or play hostess instead of forcing him to be sloppy, a hanky stuffed down his sleeve in case his sneezing gets out of hand. If this were college he’d milk every last sick day out of his professors, but Leliana has a business to run and he, bills to pay. 

Deep down, he’s aware that there’s more to it than a common cold that’s keeping him in a state of mild panic.

A different version of himself would throw a tantrum, block her number, stick up his nose and turn his back, but the man who sits and looks at her now can hardly muster any of the sulking vitriol that’s been stewing inside him the past few days. In fact, he feels almost guilty for harboring any ire whatsoever. Plague-ridden and feeling sorry for himself, it had been a trifle to peg Lavellan as a witch who’d cast a spell and stolen his stalwart friend from him. But this is just a fever dream, he knows it, and in the crisp light filtering in through the windows, she’s the same girl he’s always known, as gentle and unassuming as ever. He’s had incriminating thoughts about her and whatever her intentions may be, and they all melt like butter on a warming skillet. No scalding here, no scorch, only a reassuring smile. She’s worried about him. Cared enough to show up and offer to cook him lunch. He’ll never forgive himself if he ever speaks an ill word about her aloud.

Cullen, however, remains another matter that Dorian dare not dwell upon.

Even thinking of him for only a second changes Dorian’s expression.  He can feel his face morphing into a scowl.

Lavellan, as if a mind reader, gives Dorian A Look. Her hands fall gently to her hips and her stance is squared. It’s the classic power move; she standing over him, posture bold because she has the obvious advantage. Whereas he’s a mess of...snotty tissues and musty blankets. It’s hardly fair.

“What you need is to get out of this house,” she declares.

A pause. “I’d rather not, unless it’s for work,” he counters. Dorian draws the blanket tighter around himself, like a shell he’s trying to withdraw into. It can hide him, in this his hour of need. He doesn’t want her to see how upset he is and ask about why. He’s sick. He’s clogged up and if his eyes are watery it’s because he can’t stop sneezing!

“You’ve been cooped up in here for days.”

“It’s not that long,” he interjects.

“You haven’t gone out in, what, a week?”

He cringes at the question.  _ Gone out _ is a vague phrase, one that conjures up images of summer and hitting the town. Of carnivals and blueberries and chocolate birthday cake and damnably handsome blond men with no sense in their heads. Of course, Dorian knows Lavellan means something more innocent. Something along the lines of not being a sad sack around his apartment, being functional and going outside, but his answer still sticks in his throat.

“I suppose,” he ventures.

“And you’ve been all on your own since when? The last time I saw you?”

He frowns. “Last I noticed, it’s not the apocalypse. One tends to spend their days off relaxing at home. Then I got sick. I’ve had my books, my tv, and myself to be entertained with. What else could I possibly require?” He sniffs, his gaze narrowing with dramatic derision. He’s been sad as fuck, to be honest, and craved a caretaker. Someone to warm his robe in the dryer for him, to make him tea and simply sit with him on silent commiseration.

Lavellan sighs, rolling her eyes in a way Dorian would never accept from anyone else. He knows he deserves her disapproval. “I’m busting you out of here, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m sick,” he repeats.

She digs him out of the blankets, pulls them aside and puts her hand on his forehead. “You’re not that sick. Does your throat hurt?”

His lower lip trembles and he nods, uttering a fractured, half-yowl, “Yes. A little.”

“I know just the thing for it,” she says. “Get up and take a shower. Put on some comfortable, clean clothes.”

Cowering, he resists, but she dares to try and drag him out. A sudden fire forces his bad mood into a rolling boil.

“Shouldn’t you be spending time with Cullen?” 

Dorian spits it out before he can stop himself. It comes from nowhere, but it’s not surprising, not unannounced. He winces and watches Lavellan’s expression carefully for any signs of reciprocating fury, but mercifully finds none. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that. A joke, perhaps, maybe with only a slight edge, but the way it comes out is harsh, sudden, like the prick of an unseen needle holding a garment together upon a searching fingertip, a bystander. She keeps to her task of making order of his disarray. She continues to pull at his blankets, pretends she never heard it, or chose not to hear  _ how  _ he said it.

“If you can’t manage an outing for an hour or two, you’re not fit to go back to work,” she says.

The argument is futile. Both Dorian and Lavellan know he won’t come out the victor in this battle, and he has little energy left in him to continue pretending he  _ doesn’t _ want someone to pay attention to him, to pull him out of this gloomy apartment. Dorian lets out a dramatic sigh, something more in the key of his usual nature, and the mood graciously shifts to something a shade lighter. 

He makes a show of huffing and puffing and untangling himself from his nest before breathing out a single and resigned, “Fine.” 

Lavellan gives him a smile that is by far too kind for Dorian’s deserving.

“Great,” she nods, pleased. “Now get showered and brush your teeth.”

“You don’t want to be seen in public with a bum? It seems the latest fashion these days.”

Lavellan shrugs. “What if there’s someone handsome to look at? What if he looks back at you? I don’t want to listen to you moan about how I let you leave the house like this the day you meet your future husband.”

Dorian makes a noise of indignant protest at what he takes—to be honest—as a bit of an insult. It stings a little. He brings a hand up to his cheek and can only grimace at the feel of grown-out stubble and greasy skin. She’s not far off the mark. If someone remarkable did happen to look at him in this state, he’d never forgive himself. He loses interest in this argument and knows he’ll feel better, more human, once he’s freshened up.

“You do have a point.”

“I’ll let you get to it, then. Meet me at Duncan’s in an hour, all right? I’ve got a few chores to take care of, and I know you like your privacy.” She’s still flitting around, picking things up, making his life look just that much more presentable, more like it was before...before whatever it was that made him so unhappy. He can’t quite recall. “You know the place?”

“What?” Dorian squints, trying to conjure up an image of the place she mentioned. “Duncan’s, you said? The ice cream parlor off Crestwood and Ninth? Why there?”

Lavellan makes a hum of annoyance or impatience, as if Dorian is too dense to possibly understand. “Nothing makes me feel better when I’m sick than a nice milkshake,” she says, as if  _ that _ will make it  _ all better _ . “I suggest the fudge mint ripple.”

“Mint?  _ Blech _ . Why you love the flavor of toothpaste so much is simply beyond my understanding.”

He can’t see her because she’s stooped over somewhere in the kitchen, below his line of sight. “You like mojitos.”

“Don’t contradict me. They’re  _ not _ the same.”

She makes her way to the door, toting a full bag of trash over her shoulder. He knows she probably even went to the trouble of putting a fresh liner in the can for him. Because that’s just who she is. “I’m sure they’ll have something you like. Go. Get ready.”

With a final nod from Lavellan, she’s out the door, and Dorian is effectively alone once more. But now he’s been bestowed a new purpose, and he uses that to propel himself into motion. It will be nice to get out of the house, and once he gets a nice shower to slough off the last few days’ general yuckiness, he feels human once more, feels like he’s on the mend. He scrubs down and brightens up, puts on a thick pair of warm, heavy tweed trousers in navy and a clean cotton shirt, reaches instinctively for Cullen’s sweatshirt and— No. He tosses it in the laundry bin, then goes and crams it down. A hideous feeling creeps over him, like stepping out of the house and getting immediately dirty. Better to opt for a sweater instead, something warm and soft. A chunky shawl-neck cardigan with suede shoulder patches and fat wooden buttons fits the bill. He hasn’t got any shoes worth a damn when it comes to keeping his feet dry. A standby pair of beige canvas sneakers are waiting at the door. 

He takes a cold lozenge for good measure and arrives at the ice cream shop less than an hour later.

There’s parking round the back, and he hurries to blow his nose and get a few coughs out of his system while he makes his way to the front door along a bricked pathway. Tissues stuffed into his pocket, he checks his person for keys and wallet (and brain, incidentally, because he’s hardly got more than three neurons firing today, as evidenced by how lost he got on the way over.)  Lavellan hasn’t texted him back since he let her know he might be a bit late. It’s chilly out, but it feels nice, brisk against his shaved-bare cheeks. 

Duncan’s is a tiny shop. Almost all the room available is taken up by equipment or food or workspaces. There’s a bar with ready-made ice cream and gelato, as one would find in any parlor, a banquet of toppings and a warm slab for mixing in ingredients, a waffle maker, a counter for making sundaes and the like, and there’s a reach-in with cakes and ice cream sandwiches and a few other treats for taking in hand, on the go. There’s a trio of cryogenic dewar flasks for liquid nitrogen, and warning signs are a-plenty where they sit, well out of reach of customers. There’s certain to be more of the mysterious alchemy of making all this deliciousness happen hidden behind the “employees only” door, where a man in a branded t-shirt and a smudged apron emerges to welcome Dorian to the establishment. He apologizes for taking “a second” to show up. 

He’s...well, he’s very attractive, isn’t he?

To describe him would do him no justice. Ruddy blond hair, sharply angular features, but smiling. He’s got a shadow of stubble, the ghost of a goatee that Dorian finds he quite adores, and gentle eyes. He looks at Dorian in a way that a cow might. Not in the fashion of something stupid or lumbering or brutish, but something big and curious, something with no ill-will. Beautiful eyes; long, long lashes. Good posture. Ripped, too. Dorian must remind himself to thank Lavellan for the suggestion. Future husband indeed. He puts on his most genial expression and becomes utterly enraptured with the place, realizes he suddenly has a burning desire to know just everything there is to know about ice cream.

He comes up for a better look (at the gelatos all heaped with fresh fruit, enticing and colorful) and leans his arm on the case. There is an exchange of looks. Come-hither. The man does, and mirrors Dorian’s posture on the other side, leaning his hip on the counter.

“Are you Duncan?”

The man smiles and looks down. “No. Duncan was...a good friend. My mentor. I named the place after him.”

“Fereldan,” says Dorian. Is this truly his type now? He feels awkward when the man’s eyebrows raise up at the sudden interjection. “Sorry. I just...have a fondness for the accent.”

That elicits an equally awkward laugh from the other man. “Name’s Alistair.”

“Dorian. Tell me, Alistair, did Duncan teach you how to make ice cream?”

They get to talking about how Alistair ended up in Val Royeaux, similarly in exile from what little family he has left in Ferelden, and about the little differences between gelato and sorbet. He does remember to order, after a while.  Too bad, there’s no fudge-mint ripple on the menu. Lavellan might be disappointed.  At that, he recalls that she hasn’t shown, hasn’t sent word that she doesn’t plan on it, but he doesn’t mind, because Alistair is very good company. The charming Fereldan concocts a milkshake on the spot, just for him. A creamy chocolate amaretto gelato forms the base, with rough-chopped praline blended in. It soothes his throat, thick and supple, topped with whipped cream and a dash of demerara sugar. He sips and thinks he might just die, it’s so rich, but it’s all worth it. 

Alistair excuses himself to get some actual work done, leaving Dorian to sit in one of the few available seats, a comfortable armchair in the corner, hidden by a bank of bench seating. A few more sips into his drink, he pulls out his phone and gets to browsing, enjoying the time outside of his sad little hovel, anticipating that the next few days returning to work will not afford him such a quiet, relaxing luxury. The door opens a minute later, letting in a whoosh of cold air. It’s his own fault for agreeing to go get ice cream on a cold day, but he can’t help sending a mildly cross look in their direction. It’s a delivery man, having to walk through the door sideways to manage his package. As he turns, he sees the Antivan Sweets logo on the box and on the man’s shirt. 

It’s Cullen.


	14. Chapter 14

Dorian is thankful for Alistair’s intrusion, an excited “Oooh!” that catches Cullen’s attention. Being caught unawares, desperately willing himself to blink out of existence in the corner, is never a good look. Adding in his recent illness, Dorian would rather melt into his chair than be seen right now by Cullen. His anxieties pile up at the mere thought. Perhaps he could flee? Strategically maneuver himself out the door? Tempting, but, ultimately not plausible...

“Are those my cookies?” Alistair asks, setting down the stainless steel malt cup he’d been drying. He claps his hands together, looking the picture of youthful excitement.

Cullen gets through the door and brings the box over to the nearest flat surface. Alistair comes from around the back and makes grabby hands to hurry and sign for them. Dorian eyes the door again. He imagines this could only be worsened by Lavellan walking in right now, all smiles and bright eyes. Wouldn’t that just be a lovely reunion.

“You’re sure you don’t want to check it over?” Cullen reaches for the pen stuck behind his ear and hands over the clipboard with Alistair’s order and invoice on it.

He signs for them and hurries to push the pen and clipboard back into Cullen’s hands. “So long as there's an even number of them. If not I'll just eat the difference.” He shrugs and grins at Cullen, who shakes his head softly.

“Ice cream sandwiches, I take it,” Cullen asks, crossing his arms so that his clipboard is crammed between his chest and his biceps, where Dorian’s eyes are currently trapped in the midst of conflicted admiration.

“They sell like hotcakes,” says Alistair. He seems chuffed at his own joke. “Tell Josephine I'll take the same order next week.”

Cullen nods, gives a small “She’ll be more than happy,” and turns to go. He stops dead in his tracks, limbs going slack like a ragdoll before he collects himself. “Dorian.”

Time to put on an indignant face because he can't stand to be only one at fault here even though he probably is. “I’m surprised you remembered,” he sniffs, turning his head up. He mixes his milkshake absentmindedly with the straw, stirring and stirring.

Cullen stands straighter in response, his posture rigid with anger, but he doesn’t act on whatever he seems to feel. “You haven’t exactly been easy to get a hold of these last few weeks.”

“You have a girlfriend now,” he shrugs. “My work is done.”

“Th-that’s absolutely not true,” he stammers, shoulders rising. Cullen’s hands ball into fists, squeeze, and then open. Dorian can tell he’s forcing himself to relax, to take a breath.

“Oh?” Hope springs eternal, the bitch, and Dorian tries to stamp it out when his heart flares up with a twinge of it. “Then what of Lavellan?”

Cullen has the audacity to squint at him like he doesn’t understand.“What _about_ her?”

“You’re not dating anymore?”

“We never were.” Cullen’s voice drops in pitch when he realizes he’s been shouting. “We went hiking _once_.”

Dorian doesn’t yell. He hisses, “You went on a second date!”

“So what.”

Cullen comes over to his chair and towers over him, but intimidation won’t work on Dorian. His ego is the biggest thing in the room.

“I’ll just,” Alistair murmurs, taking his case of cookies and leaving for the back, “take these and go. Any customers come, just...have them ring the bell, will you?” He slips through the doorframe and disappears into what may very well be the ether. Right now, Dorian is only focused on one thing.

“So what?!” his voices pitches up, astringent even to his own ears. “That’s a huge fucking milestone for someone like you, don’t you think?” The hand not gripping the milkshake squeezes at the armrest of his chair, fingers digging in.

The glint in Cullen’s eye catches Dorian by surprise. “Isn’t that what you wanted all summer long?”

He knows what the challenge means. It’s the same way he and his father used to fight, all with thinly-veiled accusations. What exactly Cullen is trying to accuse him of, he’s not clear on, but the words frazzle him all the same.

“Well, yes, but,” he backpedals. “Don’t try to turn this around so it’s my fault.”

“It _is_ your fault,” he says. “Everything was fine until you started avoiding me. I come back from Ferelden ready to tell you _everything_ and just because I spend a day with Lavellan you completely block me out. What did I do wrong?”

“I guess I just…”

“Was it because of you got tired of me?” The heat has fallen to a simmer in Cullen’s expression, brow still pinched, but there’s something else there now. Something sad.

“No! I was jealous, Maker damn it! First the fucking hiking trip that you both know I’d never want to be involved with, and then coming all the way to Haven just to throw it in my face that you chose her over me!”

There’s a long silence while Cullen recoils from the impact of his words.

“I-I wanted to see _you_ !” He gulps. “I used Lavellan as an excuse. I wanted to ask you to join up with us. But I got there and I was so angry at you for avoiding me that I couldn’t go through with it.” He looks tired and ready to give up this fight, but his resolve firms up for one last retort, “We still spent the whole time talking about _you_!”

“What?”

“Lavellan doesn’t want to date me,” he sighs. He sits down on the bench and holds his clipboard, looks at it with unseeing eyes just to keep from having to look anywhere else. “She’s got her eye on someone else.”

Dorian almost wants to shout a praise to the Maker himself, relief washing over him. He’s now left with the fact that Cullen’s probably a little torn up about it, might have needed him while he was pickling in his own vinegar, alone and miserable in his own way. He immediately regrets fighting, regrets everything.

Before he can start patching things up, Cullen continues, more quietly, “As do I.”

“I’m sorry? This is news to me. Who-?”

Cullen pins him down with a soulful stare. Pensively, quietly, he asks, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

His milkshake becomes very interesting, then, and he focuses on it, twirls the straw, takes a sip and bats his lashes, crosses his knee and bobs his foot like he’s got a schedule to maintain, but taking all the time in the world getting around to answering him.

He drudges up the very last vestiges of his nonchalance, “What are you talking about?”

“She told me...Lavellan. She said that you might have feelings for me.”

In a split second, Dorian goes stricken trying to remember, going over all of the times he and Lavellan made small talk and Cullen came up in conversation. No, he’s sure it never did. He’s always been careful never to say, even when he desperately wanted to, that Cullen was ever, ever anything more than a good friend. Even if he had, he’d lie about it until the end times came.

“Now that’s funny. I don’t recall ever telling her that.”

Never. Never out loud.

He thinks maybe if he can believe in the lie hard enough, it’ll be true. Couldn’t be farther from it, but Dorian can’t make this gambit, not without knowing where Cullen wants to move next. For a moment the two of them are alone with only the sound of the refrigerators to carry the conversation.

“Y-you…” Cullen goes red, stricken, and unlike all the other instances when Dorian would find it endearing, this time there’s real panic. There’s an unmistakable threat of cataclysmic failure looming over this all. It makes Dorian feel terrible. “You don’t. Have feelings for me. But why did she-? I thought so many times that maybe...you...” He clears his throat, looks perhaps even redder than before. He won’t look anywhere but the floor. “This was a mistake. I’m- I’ve got to get back to work.” He scratches at his beard and twitches his attention around the room, tries to look at Dorian, fails to maintain eye contact, and then turns on his heel.

“What are you going on about?”

He’s leaving. As abruptly as he showed up. Dorian realizes now just how badly things have gone off the rails. He watches helplessly as Cullen tugs down his cap and makes a break for the door. Should he follow him and draw this terrible row out, let it overflow into the street? What’s left here is half a melted milkshake and the tatters of one of very few friendships he’s ever had in his life. All intentions of further flirting with Alistair have been utterly obliterated by Cullen’s appearance; come to think of it, his very _timely_ appearance. How could this chance encounter have even happened if not for serendipity, a streak of bad luck...or an unseen hand of fate. One attached to Lavellan’s arm!

She planned this. She must have. Perhaps all of it, all the way back to the hiking trip on Mount Hunterhorn. “What of her” indeed! The gall! She’s coordinated this whole meeting, too, and when Dorian finishes piecing it together, he drops his head and rubs his temple. She has a tattoo on her arm of a wolf representing the trickster god, Fen’Harel, and it seems to suit her more and more.

“Cullen!” Dorian jumps up to catch him by his arm. He’s lucky Cullen hits an impasse. A group of college aged kids come clattering in, immovable and noisy. “Wait.”

His skin is hot. Guilty, betrayed, furious, devastated. Both of them. The topography of his body is all tension, bunched muscles, all pain and suffering, guarding himself from yet another glancing blow from one of Dorian’s endless quicksilver repartees. He turns his cheek, and his impatience writes itself on his rumpled brow.

“I don’t want things to end like this,” he says, more quietly than before. “Please come back and let’s just talk it over.”

They return to their somewhat-private corner of the parlor. Alistair comes back from his endeavors in the back room, announces himself with a half-yelped refrain of a song playing in his headphones. He’s carrying a tray of ice cream sandwiches. The group loiters around the ice cream case, laughing and free with their amusement.

At any rate, it’s obvious to him that she’s been playing them both, or else Cullen wouldn’t be so mad, or so he hopes. Insightful and well-meaning, perhaps, but she’s interfered in something that's honestly none of her business.

“I never said I... _didn’t_.” He sighs. “I just never told Lavellan. I’m afraid she’s duped us both.”

Cullen brightens immediately, like a dog hearing its owner reach for a bag of its favorite treats. And then his pull back together, wondering, “But why would she-”

“This whole thing is just some big plan of hers to get us together.” Dorian genuinely feels bad for arguing, but he’d prefer having a scuffle and live with all the miscommunication that arose from it rather than admit what he’s about to say out loud. “Well-meaning, but ultimately…”

Futile.

“What?”

“Look, Cullen, what I feel doesn’t matter. You’re straight, I’m gay. And ne’er the twain shall meet. It’s fine, I accepted it a long time ago. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. If you want to go our separate ways, then...”

Then what? Dorian waits and doesn’t know how to finish this up without leaving a ragged edge. Cullen takes off his cap and smooths down his hair. His coloring is better, more pale, the way he’s supposed to be.

“But- Dorian, I-" Cullen’s mouth works to form words, but he merely chews them, shakes his head, and tries to come from another angle. “When this all started I was just happy to have a friend.” He’s far off, but smiles, just so. Dorian’s heart thumps so hard it feels it might be trying to escape. “Somewhere along the way, that changed. I stopped thinking of things in black and white. I found myself thinking of you as...more.”

No.

This isn’t what he’s been expecting, and he doesn’t want to accept it. Cullen is inexperienced with this sort of thing, with people who give their love away so freely, like Dorian does. He’s conflating a close friendship with something else altogether, terrain he’s so unfamiliar with, he’d be lost if ever thought of it seriously.

“Don’t confuse things. You can like another man without falling in love with him. If you were interested in men then you’d have made an effort to pursue something.” He laughs as he talks and passes this all off as a misunderstanding. If they get through this quickly, they can put this whole ridiculous turn of events behind them. “You’d have _said_ something.”

"I’m trying to say something now. I only hope it's not too late.”

That gets his pulse racing.

“ _Are_ you?” he asks, not yet ready to let go of his disbelief.

“If you’re willing to hear me out.”

It’s suddenly a little too hot in the ice cream parlor. Too public, too, because some of the kids are watching them. Dorian hasn’t felt this way in a long, long time. Not since he was quite young, hiding during recess with a classmate back when things were less frightening when two boys fancied one another. It’s like love, but the word is tarnished by his adult experiences. It’s much more innocent than that. As he got older, teachers and parents told him it was wrong for boys to hold hands, to whisper and laugh and live in a secret world that adults could not touch or understand. Those feelings went away, replaced with hardier stuff. Hormones brought on bodily lusts, and teenaged angst brought on bad decisions. This is a return to innocence, in a way, sharing this painfully intimate moment with Cullen. Hope and desire entwined somewhere along the way, this last summer, formed a tender seedling he’s tended in absolute solitude, and it’s been protected because he thought he was alone in his garden. But apparently that’s not the case. With Cullen involved, living, breathing, imperfect, he’s not sure this frail new bud can survive.

He licks his lips. “Let’s suppose that I am. What do you have to say?”

“If we can just go back to how things were,” Cullen says. “I’d like to see where things go.”

“How they were before?”

“Spending time together.”

There’s no stopping him from rolling his eyes. “We weren’t dating, Cullen.”

“Weren’t we?”

Dorian coughs out a bit of disdain. “I’d have remembered that. If it were true, you’d be the longest relationship I’ve ever had.”

Cullen just smiles softly, meets Dorian’s eye and then wavers, glancing away. “Mine too.”

“So,” Dorian lets out a big, tired sigh, reaches for his tissue and dabs at his nose, which has been threatening to run like a health-crazed mid-lifer at the start of their first 10k race. “You really want to do this? Date _me_? Dorian Pavus? You’ve seen how I behave. Are you certain that’s how you want to spend your valuable personal time? I know how picky you are about who you’re dating.”

“With one important change.”

“And what’s that? No more trying to pair you off with a suitable female, I take it.”

Cullen shakes his head. “You’re deflecting.”

Dorian shrugs. “Am I supposed to be taking you seriously right now?”

“Yes!” Cullen scowls and then lets a sigh, shaking his head. When he meets Dorian’s eyes again, they’ve gone soft at the edges.

He’d give anything to have this be true, for Cullen to really mean it, for it to not end up a disaster. “Cullen-”

He’s silenced by a warm hand turning his cheek, an equally warm mouth pressing into his. Calloused thumb, a prickle of stubble. He leans into the kiss and closes his eyes on instinct. When he opens them, he sees Cullen’s eyes, half-closed, and his brows pressed down over them, too close to focus on anything at all. Their noses brush, and he feels Cullen’s fingers slide into his hair, just behind his ultra-sensitive ears. He stifles a sigh that threatens to come out far too salaciously. The kiss is everything like he’s imagined. Soft, unhurried, a little awkward. Cullen pulls back far too soon.

“Hm? What were you going to say?”

There’s a jarring lack of noise, and Dorian notices Alistair blushing hard behind the counter, trying to fill the orders of the youths who’ve been either stealing glances or outright staring at them.

“I- I was going to say that...I’ve got a cold.” He clears his throat, as gently as possible. He’s still under the weather, his head’s not clear, and on that note, if Cullen gets sick, it’s his own damn fault. “And I suspect you have it now, too.”

“I don’t mind.”

If he does get sick, Dorian won’t let him spend it by himself, at any rate. “Do you, um, want to finish this conversation somewhere more private?” If he could have his way, he’d have Cullen half undressed in the back of the delivery van in the next fifteen minutes.

“I have a few more stops to make,” he says, breathless, letting his hands slide free of Dorian’s hair.

“All right.”

“I do want to finish this discussion,” he says.

Dorian nods, gulps down the extra saliva gathering in his mouth, and notices his cheeks feel rather hot, puts the back of his hand against one to hopefully hide his blushing. “I’ll head home then. You can text me when you want to-”

Cullen shakes his head. “I don’t want you to go into hiding.”

“I won’t!”

“Then go to my place and wait for me,” he says, and he withdraws his keys from the clip on his belt loop. He holds them up by a brass house key and dangles them, the fruit of temptation.

He’s left sitting with his milkshake, holding Cullen’s keyring, and watches him go. He smiles at the door, one last time, and departs. Left to himself with a brain absolutely bursting with new information, he starts to pick through his memories of how he spent his summer. He looks for clues that perhaps Cullen had been harboring furtive homoerotic feelings all along. It definitely explained why he was so apt at pushing women away. Dorian begins to think he’s been duped by Lavellan _and_ by Cullen. How many times did Cullen turn down a date because he wanted to spend time with Dorian instead? How many times did he have the opportunity to pursue someone he may have _genuinely liked_ only to squander it _on purpose_ ? Because of _him_ ! He remembers things he’d rather not:  how he’d been the catalyst that nearly ruined otherwise stable relationships because he flirted with straight men when they were not of sound judgment. Because he was exotic, forbidden fruit, and because he made himself overtly available, made it easy to say yes. Had he done that to Cullen? Been too forward, too suggestive? Did Cullen even really want this, or did he just _think_ so, because Dorian is easy. In so many ways.

He looks at Cullen’s keys. He can’t _not go_. Cullen will be locked out when he gets home, and even if he has a spare key...he’s put his trust in Dorian to be there.

He _wants_ to be there.

But it doesn’t feel right, somehow.

He can’t be bothered. He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Lavellan:   _I’m going to wring your neck._

She responds, _Why? Didn’t ice cream make you feel better?_

“Sure of yourself, aren’t you,” he mutters, half-spiteful.  He doesn’t want her to think he’s thankful for the double-cross. It was her meddling to begin with that caused their row. He says it aloud while he types and sends the next message, “ _Why do all this?”_

She replies quickly, _What do you mean?_

He puts his phone down and looks up at the ceiling, gathering strength. _Don’t start. I’m very angry with you rn. You know exactly what you did. How far back did the ruse go, exactly?_

He gets up the nerve to make eye contact with Alistair again, who’s done and dealt with the group of youngsters, and he offers a polite grin. Dorian gets up to peruse the reach-in and there’s too many options to choose from. As soon as he fears he may opt for vanilla and be the most boring person alive, Alistair comes out from behind the bar to help him out. He’s big and warm and doesn’t seem fazed by what happened between Dorian and his delivery man.

“Sorry about that little…” tiff, he thinks, but says instead, “ _display_.”

“It’s fine,” says Alistair. “Just goes to show, yet again, that one of the best things about ice cream is how it brings people together.” He reaches into the freezer and pulls out two packets and places them in Dorian’s hands. “Blackberry cobbler ice cream and oatmeal cookies for Cullen. And...hm.  Meyer lemon sorbet with cardamom gingerbread for you.”

Dorian can’t manage to say anything, not about how boldly Alistair insinuated that Dorian had even wanted to buy anything for Cullen, but also about how impeccable his tastes were. Had Josephine taught him to do that? He pays and makes his goodbyes and carries the goodies in a paper sack back to his car, where Lavellan finally texts him back.

 _I won’t lie, at the rink I almost wanted to ask him out for real but I saw how you were looking at him. After a while I just decided to do it to irritate you_ , she said. _Maybe I hoped it would inspire you to make a move on your own._

But why did she have to be so damned sneaky? This was more like something Sera would do, partly motivated by a love of chaos and partly because she loved to put people in their place. People like Dorian, especially.

_But on our hike Cullen wouldn’t shut up about how great you are. Was I wrong to suggest there was more going on between you two than just friendship?_

After that kiss? No, she was not wrong, but Dorian had an itch to scratch, needed to hang her out to dry for a bit. _You could have really fucked this up, you know?_

_Oh yeah? How was Duncans? ;p_

He might have asked if Cullen were in on the scheme, but Cullen just didn’t do this kind of thing, and that look of surprise on his face… He never would have been able to keep it a secret if he were involved. What he really wanted to know was how Lavellan figured he wouldn’t totally fuck it up himself. She had too much faith in them both.

_Wouldn’t you like to know. Goodnight._

He drives back to his apartment to—Maker help his weary heart—pack an overnight bag.

It isn't until he's ready to go that he realizes he's not sure how to get to Cullen's place. He texts and gets a quick reply, just the address, and not a single suggestive smiley face or a mention of what’s to come. A short drive later and he's at the door, with unfamiliar keys, and unlocks it to find the place in much the same condition as last time. Except the stuffed griffon is sitting in the middle of the couch to greet him. He drops his bag and goes to put the ice cream sandwiches away. While there, he peeks into the fridge, finds a beer and opens it. Still not completely feeling well, with all the excitement and the lingering remnants of his cold, and sets himself up on the couch with a blanket, getting acquainted with the remotes to watch tv, hoping to distract himself from further painful introspection. He falls asleep and doesn't wake until the door opens when it’s grown dim enough to be near sundown. He keeps his eyes closed. Cullen moves through the house silently and does not disturb him.

His heart is pounding.

“Dorian?”

He breathes through his nose. “Sorry I fell asleep.” He feels Cullen’s fingers graze over his hair.

“Lavellan told me you were out sick for a while,” he says. “I brought home some chicken noodle soup and brioche rolls from the bakery. Are you hungry?”

He nods, and before he can say another word, Cullen is up and switching on the kitchen light. He warms up soup and brings it in a big bowl with a roll on a little plate, and a mug of tea sweetened with honey. He takes Dorian's half-finished beer and puts it in the fridge. Dorian feels a little embarrassed for drinking alone, but sits up and eats in silence while Cullen takes a shower, left to ruminate and let this new shade of their relationship take form. There is a passing contemplation, while he listens to the sounds of Cullen washing up. He wonders what might happen if he goes and checks the door and finds it unlocked, slips into the steam and fog and sheds his clothes, and steps into the shower behind Cullen’s hot, streaming wet body. As much as the idea titillates his mind, he can’t bear to get up off the couch. He sips his soup down to the last dregs and picks at his roll, gone cold. The food sits in his stomach like a lump, weighs him down. 

Give him a chance, Bull had said. _Give him a chance?_

Like the _last_ time he’d given someone a chance? Like when he’d given _Bull_ a chance?

Dorian feels himself flinch when the bathroom door opens and Cullen emerges, toweling his hair dry, wearing a pair of loose cotton pajama pants; no plaidweave this time. And no shirt. Dorian’s throat is dry. He reaches for his tea, no longer steaming but still lukewarm. Cullen rummages around in the kitchen for a bit, then comes to join him on the couch with a bottle of brown ale. It's already half empty when he sits down. Drinking to try and take the edge off? Dorian can appreciate the feeling. The honeyed tea is soothing, though, and better for him than the beer he didn't finish.  

“I brought some ice cream sandwiches,” he says.

Cullen makes a humming sound of approval. “Thank you.”

“So.” He spreads his hands out over the blanket, bunches it up, and then smooths it back out again. “Did you...want to pick up where we left off?”

Cullen looks at him and smiles, and it’s such an unabashed thing, like any of the times Dorian has made him laugh, like the last few weeks never happened at all. “S-sure. I know you have some reservations about...me...being straight...”

“Yes, about that. Am I the first man you’ve ever-?”

He shrugs, and then he looks down into his lap, reaches for his beer. A mild buzz has always been a softening agent for having these sorts of conversations. Now that Dorian knows that Cullen’s had a substance abuse issue in the past, he feels awful for having dragged him out to so many clubs, so many places where he could have easily slipped back into that dim corridor where drugs were easy to access and easier to swallow, the conscience easier to silence thanks to alcohol.

“Sometimes you meet someone and you know it’s important. You can just feel it. In the way your chest gets tight, how it’s hard to breathe,” he says, and spins the bottle in his hands, so fidgety, worse than he’s ever been on the matter of girls. “But you don’t mind it. You...sort of...start to anticipate it. You like the feeling, almost. You might not know what it is that makes you feel that way, or why, but it’s special. The way the person makes you feel, it’s like...if you let it go, if you chose to walk away, you know you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

After that kiss, Dorian would much rather pick up where _that_ left off.

He pauses and laughs at himself. “I’m sounding a bit dramatic, aren’t I?” Cullen’s mouth twitches up into a soft smile and he brings a hand over his chest, grazes idly over his his pecs and then up his neck, and Dorian’s eyes track the movement hungrily. “I suppose I must’ve picked that up from you,” he teases, but the light jab doesn’t dampen the intensity of his confession. If anything, it only deepens the chasm of emotion Dorian has found himself falling into.

“It’s a beautiful sentiment, but it doesn’t answer my question,” he says, nudging him with his elbow.

Dorian’s eyes linger on Cullen’s bare chest, and he quiets the voice originating somewhere from the vicinity of his low belly, wanting to reach out and graze his hand over those muscles. How bold of him to come out here shirtless like that. Is he being tested?

“Have you ever even thought about being with another man before?”

Cullen lets out a gasping little laugh, and he blushes all over. “Um.” Upper teeth reveal themselves to bite at his lower lip. He’s remembering something and stubbornly refusing to share it out loud. “Can I just say yes and leave it at that?”

Dorian sighs and the two of them finish their respective drinks in silence. They look up at the tv but Dorian can pay it no attention, keeps looking at Cullen and swallowing down all the saliva collecting in his mouth. He glances at Cullen’s tummy, at the faint outline of muscles, the trail of blond hair, and the gentle inhale, exhale, repeat. His hand is resting on his thigh, one leg tucked up under the other. He reaches out from the pile of blankets conveniently obscuring the semi he’s been suffering through, and takes Cullen’s hand, intertwines fingers.

“I...guess I wouldn’t mind. If we started dating officially.”

Cullen’s hand tightens just a hitch, and then relaxes, and his thumb strokes down the back of Dorian’s hand, a comforting sort of move. “It wouldn’t really change much, would it?”

Dorian shakes his head. “No. I suppose it wouldn’t. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.” He looks like a kid, absolutely thrilled. “Can I kiss you again?”

Dorian’s entire body is _sore_ from how he’s been waiting for this moment, on edge, hoping Cullen won’t change his mind and send him away. He whispers, “Yes” and realizes he’s been falling from the start.

They kiss, and it feels like it’s always been this way.

He kisses Dorian with the same sort of plaintive manner he’s always had, and it takes Dorian by surprise. Their lips graze, sharing breath, and Cullen keeps the pressure even, doesn’t ask for more. When he pulls away, Dorian’s left suspended in the moment, eyes closed, feeling Cullen move to tuck his face into the crux of his shoulder and neck, where he lets out a relieved chuckle, low in his throat, one that sizzles into Dorian’s chest. He’s soundly unaware of the way Dorian inwardly bristles and forces himself to relax; his cock is always ready and eager to make demands. Harder, faster, harder, with no care for the consequences. But this careful meeting does have consequences, and he wants them to be good. For the first time ever is content to let the unfolding happen naturally, without haste. In some other time, he’d have been naked already, would have been planning his escape as soon as he got off.

Cullen moves into his space, curls around him, and his breath is warm and smells boozy. His curls tickle Dorian’s cheek and ear for a second, and then he leans back and kisses him again, and their tongues slip against one another, and Dorian moans breathlessly into it.  He burns. His arm has fallen asleep and his legs are twitching with the need to get up and move, but he won’t let Cullen budge from this place of warmth and perfect pressure, won’t let the moment end. He won’t put up a fight, but instead will fight to keep this, to make it last. They break apart, and the sound is loud, salacious.

“Maker, but you’re _everything_ I want, Dorian.” He laughs and puts the back of his wrist up to his mouth to blot away the sweat and the spit of their spirited kissing. “What can I do to convince you this is real?”

Dorian smirks at the question.

Lavellan’s mussing about with their relationship, orchestrated or not, has only opened his eyes, finally, to what’s important. And what does he find other than Cullen falling right there beside him; dopey grin, curls damp from a bath at the end of the day, and a love-crinkled expression. It’s almost enough emotion to bring tears to Dorian’s eyes. _Almost_.

“Kiss me some more?”

“That, I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, other than an epilogue I believe we're done here! Thank you all so, so much for your comments and your overwhelming support! It's been a lot of fun! Enjoy this early update (because I won't have the epilogue done by next Friday!) :) Enjoy your weekend!


	15. An Epilogue, Of Sorts

Darkness is easy cover.  Hands move as if by divine providence.

Dorian finds the texture of Cullen's skin like velvet, like silk, like sun-warmed clay. Making out and pawing one another in the living room has spilled over into a tripping and stumbling journey to the bedroom. He can't touch enough, can't taste enough to ensure himself it’s real and not just another one of those treacherous fever dreams spurred by illness and stress and longing. If he lets go, if he opens his eyes, he’ll wake up on his couch surrounded on all sides by an empty apartment where Cullen is dating someone else, and all this has just been a beautiful fantasy gone too soon.

He pushes Cullen's pants down and grips each cheek of his ass, squeezes hard enough to make Cullen moan into his mouth. Their lips press together so that teeth touch, tongues heavy but eager to explore. In the darkness there is only the body, the will to find comfort in someone else's refuge. Dorian shoves Cullen down onto the bed and stands looking down on him, half distracted while he wrestles himself free of his clothes. Cullen scoots the rest of the way out of his pants and Dorian realizes rather belatedly that he’s breathing through his mouth, nearly drooling, looking at Cullen’s cock lying in the groove of his hip. Dorian strokes himself while he looks down and admires the new territory he’s recently been granted access to. It feels like a gift.  

Cullen admires too, looks up at Dorian with his legs spread, made a little bolder with the low light and the unyielding momentum of male lust that Dorian is, for one, absolutely enthralled by.

Objectively he’s always been able to appreciate the feminine graces of a woman, was able to put himself--woefully, deeply in the wrong direction--in Cullen’s place and imagine a beautiful woman and imagine being attracted to one in order to help him find a girlfriend. But there’d never been a “click,” never the natural desire that found him when looking at another man, even when, for a while, he’d tried very hard not to be moved by them. He wants to ask more about Cullen’s innermost yearnings, about his discovery that he wanted more, about what had inspired him to step into the sacred place where Dorian had thought they’d never trespass. He shivers and bites his lip. One of Cullen’s hands runs up his sternum and then across his pec, thumbs a nipple, pinches, and the other hand gently traces down his belly to his groin. His internal muscles flex and force his length to bob against his belly.

Dorian’s been called...well...a pillow princess, in his time. (By one partner in particular, whom he refuses to name or think about at a time like this.) His preferences are markedly on the side of being serviced, but for Cullen he’s happy to oblige.

This is thrilling in a way that Cullen might not be able to fully understand. He’s literally dreamt of being Cullen’s first encounter with the same sex. He’s imagined the scenario countless times in best-forgotten daydreams. It’s been a fantasy he’s kept as a guilty secret since they met. Faced with the real deal now, in all his nakedness, so opposite in so many ways that make him so very delectable, Dorian realizes he’s the first man to ever look at Cullen like this, to ever touch him the way he’s going to touch him. At least, he thinks so.

He crawls onto the bed, knees hugging Cullen’s waist. “Before we go any further...is there anything specific you’d like to do?”

Cullen’s hands are hot when they glide over his ribs. “Lots. But only if you’re up to it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You have a cold, remember?”

Dorian sniffs. He is congested, yes, and has a bit of a headache, but...if Cullen’s going to get sick, it’s too late for worries. He takes Cullen’s wrists, surprisingly thin and easy to wrap his hands around, and puts them back down above the splay of blond curls over the bedspread.

“Then you won’t mind if I service you while lying down?”

Cullen’s cheeks ought to blister for how red they begin to burn. “I...um…”

Dorian shushes him with a kiss, lies down alongside him, leg draped over Cullen’s, fitting perfectly against his side. Cullen’s arm squeezes him tight, and Dorian keeps grinning, keeps his hand moving, and eventually Cullen’s bold enough to touch him back, their moans captured by hapless, sloppy kissing. For perhaps the first time ever, Dorian takes his time with a partner, works Cullen up to orgasm and then pulls him back from the brink. A few more minutes of drawing out their first encounter and Dorian finally gives in, lets him come. Bucking hard into Dorian’s palm, Cullen twitches and sighs and completely unravels, leaving Dorian feeling a sort of god-like authority in the wake of such a powerful release. He feels strong, but small and gentle too, because Cullen snuggles into him, nose at his neck, and wraps him up in a sticky hug, whispering affection and thanks into his ear. Cullen pays him back, in triplicate, when he’s rested.

They sit up in bed and eat ice cream sandwiches.

“Would you have gone on pretending,” asks Dorian, carefully taking a bite and licking his fingers, “if Lavellan never said anything?”

Cullen laughs, but it mostly stays in his belly. “I wasn’t pretending.”

“You know what I mean.”

With bed sheets lightly draped over their laps, naked and unafraid, Dorian has a hard time understanding, in retrospect, why it took this long to get here.

“I don’t know. I have so little experience with making things official, I suppose it would have gone on for quite a while.” He licks at the blackberry ice cream in his sandwich, then licks his lips. “Indefinitely? Is that a rational answer?”

Dorian’s eyes are glued to the movement of Cullen’s mouth. He wants to lean into him and kiss him and push the ice cream aside, but stops himself. They should have plenty of time for that now, he needn’t rush. He swipes his thumb over a gob of lemon sorbet that threatens to slip free of his sandwich and sucks it into his mouth.

It’s not a rational answer, but Dorian finds he can accept it all the same. This fellow next to him believes in chivalry, after all; gave Dorian his coat when it was cold out, cooked him dinner, and professed his love in public. Sort of.

“What if I’d started dating someone else?” He almost expects Cullen to react poorly to the question, because it sounds cruel as it exits his mouth. But he doesn’t. Dorian glances at him and he’s smiling around his dessert, cutting eyes over at him in brazen defiance. “What?”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“You have ice cream on your chin,” he says, and reaches over to wipe him clean.

Curiously, Cullen already has a spare toothbrush in unopened packaging, in his medicine cabinet. They brush their teeth and wash up for bed and even when Dorian’s stomach twists at the thought of spending the night, Cullen lets him pick a side, and he slips between the sheets and settles in, and feels like he might want to learn to belong there. Cullen doesn’t crowd him. They sleep, and through the windows the morning light is a cleansing blade. The previous night’s glimmer of romance, where neither is blemished by reality or age or clumsiness, is summarily revoked. Cullen snores and drools into his pillow, and Dorian wakes with eyes crusted and head aching, goes off in search of cold medicine and while he’s looking hears Cullen waking up with loud sniffing and coughing, and brings him some, too.

He gets dressed and ready to head out, needs to get back home and change before work. Cullen must have the day off, because he stays in boxers and t-shirt and bids him farewell at the door, begging for one last kiss before he departs. As he slides his key into the ignition, he notices one extra on his key ring that hadn’t been there before. Cullen’s spare, he supposes, and the rest of the day he can’t wait to test it out.

At Haven, Leliana is surprisingly forgiving of his learning curve, returning to work after heartbreak and sickness have robbed him of his senses. Lavellan is there, too, and they ignore each other until their breaks align, and they argue before hugging it out even harder, and she cries a little, and he might have too, had Sera not begun to gag in the background, washing dishes. They don’t talk about it again. He heads home, exhausted, with a quick message to Cullen, exploratory and unsure.

_Sorry about the cold. Hope you’re not feeling too poorly._

It’s not good enough, but it’s all he can manage. Thankfully, by the time he slides into his parking spot, Cullen has responded and boldly asked him to come over again. If not to spend the night, at least to spend a few hours. Dorian packs a bag, and that’s the start of how he ends up with two drawers full of clothes in Cullen’s dresser and a governed “spot” for all his stuff on Cullen’s bathroom counter.  

In a year, it becomes routine, how they fit into one another’s lives.

Cullen’s things migrate over to his apartment, too. Besides his personal effects, there are more rugs, ones you can dig your toes into, and a new slipcover for the couch (half to change the mood of the living room and half to protect it from all the food Cullen inevitably spills while eating) and pictures. So many pictures. The Rutherfords know his address now and they send him cards _all the time_. It’s fantastic and he’d have it no other way. They’re scheduled to visit in a number of months, and it’s terrifying, but he can’t wait to meet them, can’t wait to show them the city.

Little mementos gather in the empty places, signs left of things they’ve done together and places they’ve gone, compromises they’ve made. Tickets litter the fridge, stuck with magnets, to ball games where Dorian had no stakes in the winning team, but he wore a hat that matched Cullen’s anyway. There are tickets to movies, and to plays, and one of them is a bit rumpled, accidentally washed in the pocket of a pair of jeans, but still recognizable: a ticket from the original art gallery where they had their first “date.”

(They’ll never agree on what was their first, the art gallery and Merril’s diner, or the fine restaurant a few blocks down from Haven, almost a year later. Dorian would rather the latter, where Cullen showed up in a nice suit jacket, one he had a delightful time removing later on that evening.)

“Tell me again when you decided you were in love with me?”

The resounding laugh from the kitchen does very little to satisfy the particular nerve Dorian is looking to have soothed. He’s on the couch with his laptop out, picking through his academic work on all his old usb drives. Admissions requirements to Skyhold University are open in a browser window. He’s been in touch with a counselor, and she’s told him to dig out his transcripts and submit some of his papers in order to see how best to place him. His degree has waited a few years to be finished, but most of his credits will transfer from Tevinter, and for that he’s endlessly grateful.

Cullen is cooking, and the sound of mixing and clattering of implements comes with the aroma of buttery, heady spices.

“I could ask you the same thing, but you always refuse to tell me.”

Dorian shrugs. He realizes Cullen can’t see this, but can’t rightly answer either. He’s not sure when he decided he was in love with Cullen. He has an inkling, but to admit it out loud would probably hurt the man’s feelings. “I’ll tell you, eventually.”

“Fine. It was sometime before we went blueberry picking. I think we were at an arcade?”

Cullen is making a simple meal for the two of them. Baked fish and pilaf and cheddar biscuits. The biscuits are a store-bought package, but homemade, still. A more hair-bending tale would be how Dorian allowed himself to become so domestic, even though it’s Cullen doing all the work. Sitting around on a late Saturday afternoon, drinking hard cider from a can and sharing a wine-infused meal with his boyfriend while he watches baseball is not something he’d ever expected to find himself doing, though the melding of their tastes pleases him endlessly. The Orlesian coin on his bracelet clinks when he reaches over to the coffee table for his drink.

“You were focused on something else and I took a moment to just look at you. I think I started to realize then,” he says. The clatter of the oven being opened and closed lets Dorian know the food will be ready soon. “I had no idea what I was feeling, of course, but...I knew _how_ I felt.”

“Mm, and how _did_ you feel?” He perks up when Cullen comes and sits on the couch beside him. “Tell me with the most detail you can manage.”

“I looked at you and felt like I was going to die,” he said, loudly cracking open a beer and leaning back on the couch with his arms across the back. He looks supremely masculine, in a way Dorian can never shy away from.

This is what passes for romance. Dorian smiles and hands Cullen the remote. A year of continuous dating has made them as dull as dish soap. But it’s a good kind of new normal, knowing that he can rely on Cullen for more than just a bit of fun rutting around in the backseat of his five-door (though they have done exactly that, more than once).

“Flatterer!” He closes the laptop and sets it aside. He’s found what he needs for now.

“Well it’s true. You were so striking. I’d never quite felt that way before. About anyone.”

The story always makes him feel good, and Cullen always tells it, because he’s nothing if not a giving person, and devotes perhaps too much of his time to making sure Dorian is happy. Dorian knows he’s not made of the best material for Cullen, that he’s moody and selfish not because he means to but because it’s his habit. And he’s unbearably insecure about their relationship. He can’t tell Cullen about when he fell in love with him because it was much later on, and not quite as pristine a moment. He’s not even really sure how or when it happened, just that, after a year, he can’t imagine being with anyone else, ever again.

He snuggles into Cullen’s side and loves the feel of his arm, heavy around his shoulders, fingers grazing over the hem of his sleeve. Too fidgety to sit comfortably for long, he takes in Cullen’s smell and the feeling of his warmth for a few minutes until he has to get up and move around again.

“Have you thought about replying to Bull’s invitation?”

It’s a bit unpleasant, being reminded of that. Turns out he and Trevelyan--Evelyn--are getting married. They have yet to RSVP. It strings incredibly, though he’s not said as much to Cullen, who’d take it personally if he revealed how resentful it makes him to know that he’s been passed over for someone else, even by someone he no longer loves. He hasn’t even met her. Doesn’t know what kind of man the “Iron” Bull really is, to her. Changed, it seems, and in a good way, because the last person he’d expect to settle down would be _that_ one. Next in line behind himself.

“I don’t think I want to go,” he admits. “But I need an excuse. He’ll know if it’s too flimsy, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“If you really don’t want to hurt his feelings,” says Cullen, “just _go_. I’ll be there with you. It’ll be fine.”

He’s not jealous anymore, Dorian can tell because Cullen is far too obvious in his confidence.

“I’m not comfortable going,” he says, and the subject goes dark. Cullen’s hand moves to his, where it rests on his knee. “I’m sorry. You know how I am. It’s not really up for debate.”

Thinking about Bull always makes him reflect on the past. When they’d been together, he’d been hung up on disowning himself, on the future for himself that he’d dashed upon the rocks. Bull had insisted he could do whatever he liked, return to Tevinter and patch things up, or leave them behind forever, no harm done. It had never been that easy. Bull made it seem that way, for a while. But it hadn’t lasted.

“You don’t need to explain. Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you.” He gives Dorian’s hand a squeeze and then gets up, goes back into the kitchen to finish up dinner. Just like that. There’s no argument and no goading and no chiding. Not like things would have been, were this up for discussion with someone like Bull. “Need anything while I’m up?”

Dorian watches him. He takes in just...everything. Size, shape, eye color, the way his clothes are understated but suit him perfectly, his soft smile, the lines on his face from smiling and from worrying. He understands what Cullen meant, taking the time stop and really look. He feels like he might burst, and it’s silly, but he knows that he can’t tell Cullen about when he fell in love, because he’s still falling, all the time. This is the life he’s never been able to imagine for himself, and it’s almost underwhelming, how normal it all is, how cooperative they are. When he was younger, he might have thought it was less real, somehow, because they rarely fought, because they got along so well. He’d taught himself that things had to be difficult, in order for them to be worthy.

This is their life. It’s still young, but there’s a path ahead of them. He’s ready to go back to school, and Leliana has contacts in good standing who’ve opened up his academic career in ways he’s never imagined. Besides working part time for Josephine’s bakery, Cullen’s been offered a job by a former coworker from his days as an officer. They’re still figuring things out, but it’s a lucrative beginning. He’s proud. It overwhelms any flicker of jealousy simmering low in his gut.  

He takes too long to answer and Cullen looks up at him from over the kitchen island.  “Dorian?”

“I love you.” He leans on the arm of the couch and rests his chin on his arms. As an afterthought, he bats his eyelashes, as if to soften the blow. They don’t say it very often. But he means it.

Cullen laughs a little and sheepishly scratches at his jaw. “I love you too.”

“Do you think you’ll marry me someday?”

He turns his gaze down, focuses on getting plates in order to dish up dinner. “I think so, yes.”

He's amazed Cullen doesn't react with a metric ton of boyish nerves and sputtering. He's....probably given it some thought. It strikes Dorian as quite romantic, but it's not surprising, is it? Whatever it is, it's a good enough answer, for now. It’s as casual as anything has been, between the two of them. It’s a promise that doesn’t need blood or fervent gestures of commitment in order to really mean something. Hopefully, this time it won’t take them months of chasing down the wrong conclusions to get it right. They can rely on Lavellan to sort things out, if it comes to that.

“Good. I’ll be waiting." He sighs. "Not too long, mind you.”

“Not too long.” Cullen nods in agreement and his generous smile is so infectious it makes Dorian feel like he might die.

Maker. What has he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I apologize that this epilogue isn't juicier, as it were. I just had a few more little scenes I thought you guys might enjoy. Thank you so, so much for following the story and for commenting and showing your support.


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